


I'm Nothing but a Dried up Life

by Cassiel_of_Thursday



Series: Snowblind [1]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic, The Adventures of Sinbad (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent?, M/M, Self-Harm, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassiel_of_Thursday/pseuds/Cassiel_of_Thursday
Summary: With Sinbad now freed from the clutches of Maader and  Ja'far having decided his role in the future of the Sindria trading company, Ja'far comes to terms with his own feelings of fault and anger from when Sinbad was taken by Maader. Seeing signs of problems in their young comrade, Rurumu and Sinbad each try to dispel the self-deprecating ideas the former assassin holds. I'm terrible with summaries. Sinbad/Ja'far if you squint at it.





	1. Even if these steps I'll make...

Ja’far didn’t really think before he lunged at Sinbad. He was small, he knew that, he knew that very well, but he knew how to properly use his weight. He barely felt when his fist connected with Sin’s face. He was so angry. His heart thrummed heavily in his chest, vibrating his pulse behind his ears, digging his nails into his palms as his fists tightened through the blow. He knocked the sixteen year old to the ground and was on him, pulling his tunic so that he’d look in his eyes, eyes that burned like the strongest acid. 

“What a fucking joke.” Ja’far was at a loss, this man, this broken creature beneath him, was not the one he had chased to Imuchakk. He was not the confidant man who boasted to allies and enemies and Djin alike of his desire to reshape the world. The eyes that had glittered with aspiration, sparkled like the gold he so often chose to adorn himself with, were darkened and hallowed. The bruises on his neck and ankles, the despair in the eyes that had once promised so much, all fueled the fire in his chest. Was he angry? Undeniably. Was it all because of how Sinbad was behaving? No. 

He didn’t have a lot of experience expressing emotion. The only one that was even mildly acceptable in Sham Lash had been anger. God forbid you show sadness or cry, they’d eat you alive. He knew this well. The day he murdered his parents was the last day he cried. Their hearts had barely stopped beating before he was dragged away and punished for his weakness. The blood was still pooling beneath the ashen skin of their corpses when his hair was pulled roughly, near to the point of holding him above the ground, and he was thrown into a bath of ice water, held beneath the surface to a point dangerously close to death. The first couple of times he was let up for air he heard their jeering, their torment and promises of worse to come. They became a dull roar shortly after, as his heart constricted the blood flow to keep him warm, and the cold made him feel like his chest was both imploding from the temperature and exploding from the lack of oxygen. The last time he cried was when Rurumu had called him her son, the first time he had felt pure kindness. Kindness that held no ulterior motive, kindness that had no ill intent. Kindness meant to comfort. She had to dirty her hands, she who held such kindness for useless brat. 

“Disappointed me? Yeah you disappointed me.” His hands were still gripped around Sin’s tunic, a tremor running through them so faint it almost wasn’t there at all. “You’ll take responsibility for everything?.. You’re not taking responsibility for anything, are you?!” He was sure his face was nine shades beyond scarlet. He could barely breathe. He was so overwhelmed, with anger, with relief, with pain, with disappointment, with grief, and he couldn’t contain it, couldn’t fathom how to express it all. His teeth ground together, reverberating through his jaw as he looked down at the bloodied man beneath him. “You’re letting yourself sink into despair, giving up, and, on top of that, having the nerve to act like it’s all over.. Listen up!!” He had pulled Rurumu and Hinahoho from their home in Imuchukk with his promises of a better world; Ja’far knew he was filth already, but she was a goddess. She shouldn’t have had to parade around in this mud with him. “What you did is the same as what Maader and Parthevia did? And because of that, you’re calling yourself a corrupt person?! This isn’t a fucking joke!!” He was seething, because the words Sin was saying about himself, for actions that Ja’far and Rurumu had mirrored, were wrong. “In order to pay our debt we used the same tactics as that hag to fuck with the Mariadel Company! We risked the company you were desperately trying to protect, using King Rashid, and got our hands dirty pulling the worst sort of scam that barely escaped getting us mixed up with the law!!” They had dirtied their hands, Ja’far knew this would happen, one wasn’t going to change the world without getting their hands dirty, either directly or indirectly. Why was this so groundbreaking to Sinbad? Was he that deluded? Ja’far shook his head. He was getting lost in the whirlwind of emotions inside his skull. His anger was fading, the initial outburst at Sinbad’s defeated words after he and Rurumu had painstakingly plotted for his freedom, after he had promised so much to Hinahoho, Rurumu, Mahad and Vittel. And to Ja’far. His anger was fading, like fireworks in the sky, burning brightly, but fleetingly, before going out and falling. His grip loosened incrementally, and he realized how rough he had been. “Think back, on that dream you shared with me…Was that dream really so meaningless that you’d give up on it just because you had to get your hands dirty? It isn’t is it?! So build it. I’ve already decided to do whatever it takes.. In order to make that ridiculous dream of yours a reality.” 

Ja’far had known Sinbad was naïve. He knew this when the man decided to take in three assassins as subordinates. When he decided a couple of, albeit now formerly, illiterate kids were going to create a country. In a way, he loved that about Sinbad. If Ja’far was darkness and death, Sinbad was light and life. He just figured eventually Sinbad would understand some things did have to be done. You don’t build a new country without pissing someone off. You don’t establish a new order without making enemies. He thought these should be a given. There has never been a war without death. Yes, part of his anger that he felt was misdirected. He was frustrated at Sin, but he was appalled at himself. He was supposed to protect Sinbad, he was supposed to be there for him. The man that had shown him this new life, he was powerless to help him when he needed it most. He couldn’t rescue Sin from becoming a slave. His failure was why those golden eyes had dulled. His failure was behind those bruises on his future King’s neck. His failure was the reason the man that stood tall and proud before armies and Djin alike looked so damn defeated. It infuriated him. If it hadn’t been for Rurumu, Sin still would have been at the witch’s mercy. Their conversation piddled off, and Ja’far helped Sin up with the promise of tomorrow. The promise to each other to realize their dream, to stay strong when circumstances demand unsavory decisions to be made. The promise of consequence. 

Ja’far fell back as Sinbad talked with the slaves, as he promised them a future in his country. Ja’far tried to keep the frown off his face, but he was fairly sure he failed. The fire that once lit Sinbad’s words just wasn’t there. He grit his teeth, biting his tongue to the point copper burned in his mouth. He hated that woman. For all that she had done. But he hated himself more for letting it happen. His was a heinous existence. Hers was abhorrent. He wanted to wrap his wires around her neck, pull on them until her skin bulged around the ridges his weapon created. He wanted to take her God damn head off, he wanted to see the color of her blood stain the ground beneath him. He wandered back to their ship, to his room as the others went to find Masrur. He changed his path when he hit the deck, decided to duck below, to the company of stowaway rats and other heathens. He tucked himself in behind some barrels, curling his knees flush against his chest and folding his arms atop them. It was chilly and dank down there, quite different from the sunny breezes of Reim of above. He belonged down here, this is where his existence fit. He laid his cheek on his arm, feeling the wires against his face. They would probably set off tomorrow. Back to the Sindria Trading Company. 

He sighed. Eyes slipping closed. He was tired. He had only slept enough to keep functioning through the time Sin was gone, his brow furrowed, recalling the stern scoldings he had gotten from Rurumu and Hina at his insomniac behavior. It wasn’t ever that he was really doing anything, the plan had been made in short time, but he just had this anxiety thrumming through his veins that prevented him from resting any more than was absolutely necessary. Perhaps he should have made himself sleep a incremental bit more. Even with his drowsiness, his guilt kept him awake. The panging inside his being preventing him from falling to sleep no matter how much he wished to shut his mind down at this point. As much as he ever did anyway. 

His habits from childhood died hard. He kept himself on the ready, sleeping with “one eye open” as one might say. He didn’t physically have one eye open in his sleep, but he kept his senses open. As with many things, it had been painstakingly drilled into him. The same way his emotions had been whittled down to solely expressing rage or distaste, the same way his palate had been practically reduced to nothing and his immunity to poison and illness now practically unsusceptible to harm. The same way his body had been riddled with scars and callouses, the same way he was able to sneak around undetected, the same way he had been able to almost remove any distinct scent to avoid being remembered or noticed by animals. Even now he was uncomfortable showing his distinctive features, his white hair and freckled face. Anything identifiable. He survived on the basis of being unnoticed, of being a shadowed strike. 

He did not hate the skills he learned, or the apprehensions he experienced day to day because of them. The continuous distrust he had for most people. If anything, at this point he was grateful for them. They gave him something. Something of worth. He had murdered more people than he could possibly count, before or after the education he had with Rurumu. He was a clean killer, yet the sheer amount of blood on his hands could satiate a vampire for its entire existence. He laughed, a dry, hoarse, humorless laugh. He was a despicable human. Human. Was that the word for his existence? Had he traversed the realm of monster yet? He was certain he had. He was well aware of one thing, he had very few plans to atone for his crimes. Sin may not be able to do this with clean hands, but he didn’t have to do the shady jobs. Shady jobs did not befit a King. This was something he could do. He pulled at the wires, already taught around his arms, feeling them rub against the wounds he’d created beneath them. The pain, while small and barely noticeable in the scope of pain he has felt in his life, still quelled some of his uneasiness. A small trickle of blood welled around the wire, continuing down the winding trail until it ran itself dry. He closed his eyes again.  
‘I won’t fail again.’


	2. Lead to the last breath I take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ja'far and Sinbad return to the trading co., dreams and shared fears are brought to light.

He was stiff when he opened his eyes. A terrible combination of having been lodged in the same cramped position for too long, and low temperatures. It got cold out at see, particularly below deck. He looked around, eyes already sharp, listening for what had woken him to begin with. He figured it shouldn’t be near a normal waking hour, so he couldn’t fathom who would have business below deck right now. Scenarios flew through his head, ranging from possible to farfetched, from worst case scenario to a restless shipmate who happened to fancy a stroll in the dank and mildew wafting quarters he was nested in, however unlikely either possibility was.

 _‘There’s no way someone could have snuck aboard could they? I would have noticed right?’_ He heard the undeniable sound of bare feet on wooden stairs, someone approximately a hundred and thirty five pounds given the way the wood groaned beneath them. And… barefoot? He released a small amount of the tension he’d been holding. There’s no way between that fact and the obvious incapacity to be quiet, he figured tonight was not the night the organization tried to reclaim their three missing assassins. He was no fool, like he overheard Mahad and Vittel discussing once, he too was aware the organization may one day come for them, be it for capture of execution he couldn’t be sure, but he figured it was coming. He pulled his wires into the wounds again. ‘ _I’ll be damned if someone here gets hurt when they come for me’._ Ja’far wasn’t very prone to sleeping in his room, especially at sea. He would find himself by the railings, or in the birds nest, waiting, watching. For some sign of danger. Sinbad had good instincts, but sometimes he got too comfortable, and Ja’far took it upon himself to make sure nothing caught them off-guard. That was the fastest way to die. To be blindsided. He already knew his plan, should the organization come for him personally. What his moves would be to keep the danger away from the rest of the company should a fight ensue.

The footsteps grew closer, and Ja’far could hear the swish of light cloth flowing against itself. Likely someone wandering around in sleepwear, maybe even sleepwalking. _Most people would at least wear shoes to wander a ship._ He laid his head back down on his arm. He determined the person not to be a threat, just an idiot. Surprisingly though, the steps came closer still, down the corridor and to the back corner, and at an annoyingly slow pace. He decided to just stay with his head down, hoping whoever it was, should they see him, would leave him the hell alone. He wasn’t much in the mood for people. He tugged at the wire again, feeling some warmth pool to the surface of his frigid skin as the wound re-opened beneath the wire. How many times had he done that? He wasn’t sure; it was never his goal to keep count. He would let it heal when it had finished serving its purpose.

The steps stopped in front of him and he heard a rush of air as the owner crouched in front of him. _Fuck. There goes the ‘leave me alone plan.’_ He huffed and prepared to look up when recognition hit him and it clicked. The footsteps, the tactless attempt at silence, and now, albeit faint and mostly masked by a recent bathing, the scent that seemed as though it belonged on a tropical island and on the most mundane beach all at the same time.

“What is it Sin?” He looked up just in time to see the man in front of him stiffen, surprised at having been called out.

“I thought you were asleep,” he mused, his arm falling to rest over the knee he was kneeling down on. What he had been prepared to do with it prior Ja’far wasn’t sure. Probably shake him awake. He frowned, knowing exactly how that would go over, and knowing it would be entirely unpleasant.

“I would have been a terrible assassin if I were that easy to sneak up on,” he mumbled. ‘ _Not that I’m not still a terrible assassin, just look at where I am now. I couldn’t even use what little skill I_ did _have to save him. I couldn’t even fix it on my own, I had to count on Rurumu and Rashid, royalty of all people because I’m such a fuck up of an assassin. I should have lobbed that woman’s head off from the start, or…’_

“Why are you down here? It’s freezing!”

“It’s not that cold, you are just horribly mis-dressed. Why are _you_ down here if it’s so terrible?”

“One of the guys asked me to keep an eye out for you, he couldn’t decide whether to set sail or to wait until we knew you were here. I told him if you said we were leaving at dawn you would be here by then and to go ahead and leave. And now, well I couldn’t sleep so I thought I would look for you instead. I was starting to worry you weren’t even on the ship, and that I had messed up again” he laughed then, but Ja’far frowned, not liking the way Sin had phrased the end of his thought, _messed up again,_ he repeated in his head. _Sin…_ Sin reached out to tug on Ja’far’s arm, pulling him out of his contemplation. “Gods Ja’far you’re like ice, come on, up,” Ja’far didn’t budge, “oh come on.” Sinbad groaned, pulling Ja’far up to his feet, and then resting both hands on the small shoulders of the younger boy. “You are so disagreeable you know that?”

“And you’re stubborn.”

            “Well, you’re right there. Now let’s go, I’m about to lose some toes.”

            “No you aren’t.”

            “Okay but I feel like I am, I can’t even move half of them anymore!” Ja’far shook his head, following as Sin made his way back above deck, and grimaced. Even in the darkness below, the blotching on Sin’s wrists and neck held Ja’far’s gaze, another pertinent reminder of his failure. In the moonlight they were even more prominent, though the shirt was long sleeved, and his collar high, those small violent peeks of violet and yellowed skin shone like beacons to his eyes. Attracting his gaze, demanding his attention and engraving their significance into the grooves of his brain. _He wouldn’t have those marks if you were more capable._ “Ja’far? Are you alright?” They were about halfway to Sin’s room at this point, his gaze cast over his shoulder to appraise the younger, golden eyes locking onto normally bright green ones and Ja’far only nodded in response. Sin looked forward and frowned, having noticed the dark shade over his companions pallor. He opened the door to his room, letting Ja’far pass in front of him before grasping narrow shoulders and pushing him towards the bed.

            “I can walk you know,” Ja’far mumbled as Sin nudged him to sit down on the edge, and proceeded to swaddle him with blankets. Wrapping them around his legs and torso, all the way up and around his head and face like a hood and mask.

            “Not anymore, I cocooned you.” Sinbad smirked, winking as he sat down opposite Ja’far. In spite of himself, Ja’far smirked before proceeding to peel the blankets back.

            “I appreciate the effort, but I prefer to keep my movement. I wasn’t cold anyway. “ Sinbad stood, throwing a couple of extra pieces of wood in the fire already started in the room before sitting back down, this time in the center of the bed. Ja’far continued to maneuver out of the blankets. Sin ran a hand down one of Ja’far’s arms, stopping to grip his hand at the end, and then reaching to take the other in his grasp as well.

            “The temperature of your skin begs to differ.” Sinbad brought their hands up to his mouth and breathed into them, then rubbed his palms along the outside of Ja’far’s. “I don’t know what I would do if you lost your toes.” Ja’far huffed and withdrew his hands, scooting forward until he was almost nose to nose with the older teen, before turning around and sitting in his lap.

            “There, now you can keep me warm better. Are you happy?” He asked, twisting his neck to look up at Sin, who blinked blankly at him in response. “What?” Sin’s face broke into a warm smile before rubbing his hands up and down Ja’far’s freezing arms, the short sleeved shirt having offered the small boy almost no insulation while he was below for who know how long.

            “You know you won’t be able to do that when you get older.”

            “Do what?”

            “Just sit in people’s laps,” Sinbad chuckled. Sometimes he forgot that behind the mask of maturity his companion wore, there were areas he was utterly clueless.

            “Why? No one seems to mind.” Wide green eyes looked up at him, and Sinbad noticed with delight they were brighter than they were a few minutes ago, glad that whatever was bothering his friend seemed to be off the kid’s mind for now. He shook his head, his ponytail falling over his shoulder and brushing Ja’far’s cheek, to which the smaller gave a small tug. He was used to the quirks in Ja’far’s behavior by now. He had a habit of not understanding the concept of “personal space” and reading social cues. He wasn’t sure if it was because of a lack of experience being close to people, or he was too used to being really close to people, and Sinbad hoped, and prayed, it was the first.

He knew the kid had been through shit, and most the time he tried not to think about it. He’d seen enough in the small flashes of memory from Valefor’s dungeon to make him want to blow the whole organization sky high with Baal, he didn’t like imagining what else his “training” had entailed. As he looked at the twelve year old in front of him, he felt that urge again, to hurt those that had hurt him. It didn’t help that Ja’far was quite small for someone his age, easily able to pass for nine or even eight years old. He wanted so badly for the kid to have some shred of innocence, of ignorance of some forms of evil, left in him. He wasn’t sure if that was the case, and he didn’t have the heart to ask. More, he didn’t think his heart could take the answer, either out of pain or relief at the response.

“Because you don’t typically see a grown man sitting in another man’s lap like this.”

“I can move,” Ja’far made to get up and Sinbad wrapped his arms around him, noting how chilled the younger still was, even down to his hair that pressed against Sinbad’s cheek.

“Nope. You’re still cold.”

“But you just sa-“

“I said one day. Right now, it’s just nice to have someone close.” Sinbad mumbled that last part and another pang went through Ja’far, a fresh wave of guilt wrenching through his body and suddenly he felt the cold, as if the blood had fled his body and left behind the cold wash of despair.

They stayed like that for awhile, certainly long past the time Ja’far’s temperature returned to normal. It was as much for Ja’far’s own sake as it was for Sinbad’s. Ja’far had begun playing with Sin’s hair at some point, his fingers absently working through the tangled mess that was probably longer than he was tall.

“Ugh, give me a brush.” He grumbled after awhile. As much as he was reluctant to move, he couldn’t feel his foot anymore. He flopped onto the bed, letting Sinbad get up and fetch the brush. Sinbad handed him the wooden handle and sat back down, pulling the tie out of his hair and letting it fall freely down his back, though it mostly held it’s prior ponytail shape due to the tangles in it. Ja’far started working through the mess, wishing it were as easy to pull apart the different emotions he was feeling as it was to pull apart the tangled strands. After several minutes Sinbad finally spoke up, and caught Ja’far’s previously diverted attention.

“Thanks Ja’far..” He said quietly, nothing at all resembling the loud mouthed teenager that he had been sent to capture in Imuchakk. Ja’far frowned, noticing how far forward Sin’s shoulders were slumped, the absence of that confidence that radiated off of him in waves, that confidence that usually felt like it was wrapping around you as he spoke, making you feel like you could lift mountains. Like maybe the dreams you once had _weren’t_ better off abandoned. “I- “

“You don’t have to talk about it Sin.” Ja’far set aside the brush then, starting to weave deft fingers through the fine strands.

“I’m sorry, if you feel like I didn’t have faith in you all. I just, I couldn’t think about anything other than getting out of there.”

“You’re out of there now. You should have let me take them all down after that full of shit match.” Sinbad tried to turn around but Ja’far stopped him, “I’m not done yet.”

“I probably should have killed her. But I couldn’t… Even after what she did… “ Ja’far sighed, tying off the end of the fishtail he had just braided and released the hair from his grasp. Sin turned to Ja’far, and he looked conflicted. Ja’far smiled, ever so faintly.

“Killing her would have gone against your ideas. You wouldn’t even kill a bastard assassin like me. It wouldn’t have been like you to finish it like that.”

“It wasn’t really like me to do what I did either though.”

“Sin, that was different. You weren’t killing anyone out of spite or cold blood. You gave those kids a chance to fight for freedom, and fights have casualties. Those won’t be the last ones we encounter either. You have to know that,” he pulled Sin’s chin up so he would look at him.

“They were happy. But it was all so wrong. She had them all under her thumb, brainwashed into thinking she was some benevolent God that had rescued them.”

“Even you?” Sinbad downcast his eyes, pulling away from Ja’far.

“I underestimated her. And she pushed me down into the ground, until it felt like loving her was the only way out. I was terrified, of saying the wrong thing, of doing the wrong thing. She brainwashed me…”

“She pulled complacency out of you through punishment.” _Not something I’m new to._ His gaze traveled to his wires. The wounds he’d inflicted on himself were nothing someone would notice, expertly placed and hidden beneath wires already colored of blood.

“She did all that, and wanted them to call her mother. She wanted to be idolized, and she got me. I hadn’t expected such.. such backwards tactics. The match didn’t surprise me, I knew from the beginning it had to be rigged somehow, or she never would have extended that deal. This whole time, I was reading every bit of it wrong.”

“What she did was fucked up.. and I’ll never forgive her for that. I’ll never forgive her for doing that to you. And you better believe, that if I ever see that bitch’s face again, there won’t be a damn soul who can stop me from painting more than just her lips red.”

“Ja’far- “

“I’m not done. You said yourself, what she did to those kids was wrong, and that’s on her. What you did may not have been right,” Sin looked away from him then and Ja’far grunted, grabbing his face between his pale hands and holding it there “and I know you would do the same thing ten times over, because you weren’t going to leave them with her. Decisions have consequences. All of them. Sometimes they aren’t pretty, sometimes there is death, and suffering, and a lot more than you ever bargained for, but we started this, and you are going to finish it.”

“We are going to finish it,” his golden gaze locked onto Ja’far’s, alit with fire once again. ‘ _Ah. He noticed my phrasing there at the end.’_ Tan hands wrapped around his. “Can I tell you something Ja’far?”

“I guess so.”

“I want you to stay by me.”

“I already told you, I’ll always follow you, wherever you go. Just don’t give up on those dreams, you’re insane, but you can create that world. If anyone can, it’s you. We’ve started down this path together now, and I’ll see it through with you. We have to keep each other straight. I wasn’t trying to say I was going anywhere of my own accord, but things happen in revolutionary times. People don’t agree with you, you make enemies, hell we already have enemies. But I’ll do all I can, to create this world with you.”

“You are my closest friend Ja’far. I depend on you much more than you believe, and you are very important to me, to everyone here. I don’t know what’s going through your head right now, but stop. I’m going to protect all of you. You are all going to see this country rise up from the ground, and you are all going to help me do it. In each of your own ways. Hinahoho will raise his kids there, Drakon will govern our military, Serendine can help run politics, Rurumu can continue to care for her children and watch over all of us, if she wants to she can regulate trade, Mahad and Vittel will, well I’ll find something well suited for them. They could work under you. Mystras can continue to be a foreign ambassador. Everyone will have a home. These kids, and you, will be right by my side. My trusted advisor. I can count on you to tell me when my head is getting too big.”

“Your head is already too big.” Sinbad laughed heartily, and Ja’far joined him.

“You’re so small,” Sinbad joked as he ruffled his white hair.

“I am not small, you guys are all giants!” They laughed awhile longer, before falling into a comfortable silence. Ja’far thought back to the other day, just before it was arranged for the meeting with Maader and the rescuing of Sin.

_“Are you alright Ja’far?”_

_“I’m fine mo- Rurumu.” She smiled gently at him before speaking again._

_“Come help me put the twins down won’t you?”_

_“Uh, sure.”_

_“Oh and Ja’far, you can call me mom. You don’t have to correct yourself,” she laid a hand on his head and he looked up at her, realizing what he had mis-said a moment ago. “I love you dearly, and you know I think of you as my own.” He blushed lightly and she turned away to lead the way to her chambers, and he followed._

_“Okay… Mom.” It felt foreign on his tongue, but it made his chest warm. Nothing had truly changed in their relationship, but it felt nice acknowledging it, bringing it out into the open like this, to say the word his childhood was deprived of, to associate the word mother with a kindness he had never known before, to associate it with someone who told him he was worth more than his unusual array of skills. He still wasn’t sure what possessed Sinbad to take in him, Mahad and Vittel, perhaps it was just opportunistic, he saw a resource and claimed it, as violent and perturbed as Ja’far was. Maybe it was something more, maybe it was that innate kindness that saw someone struggling with themselves and he couldn’t stop himself from helping, he couldn’t fathom leaving the child in misery, to become a monster and die._

Ja’far shook his head slightly as the memory recurred, ‘ _the same way he couldn’t leave those children. He felt he needed to save them from Maader, even though they had seemed happy before he opened their eyes that had been clouded by a misguided maternal bond.’_ Sin remained quiet, and the memory continued to flash in Ja’far’s memory.

_How long could Sin’s heart hold up like this? Wha would happen if he did lose someone close to him, someone like himself or Rurumu, Hinahoho, Mahad, or Vittel, Mystras or Pipirka, would he make it through that? Would it warp his heart to discover he is just a person, and while he may be a special and gifted person, may have fate on his side and a blessing from the God’s, from Solomon himself, would it break him to realize the same isn’t true for those around him?_

_“Here,” they had made it into her room while he had been pondering the fragility of his friend’s kindness, and she was now passing him a tiny child, having removed the tiny fist out of Hinahoho’s hair. She placed the small thing in Ja’far’s arm. The little girl, Rurumu’s daughter, was, thankfully, still small. She as also very squirmy, having thoroughly resisted Hinahoho’s prior attempted to lull her to sleep._

_“If you have her, then I’m going to go check on some things with the ship for tomorrow. Make sure nothing else has been thrown into chaos.”_

_“I’ll join you later,” she pressed a kiss to his cheek as Hinahoho transferred the tiny twin to the baby Ja’far held in his own arms to his beautiful wife. He smiled at her, and Ja’far looked away, uncomfortable watching their moment, focusing instead on the tiny life he held, starting a swaying motion with his hips so soothe the restless baby. Tiny hands reached up towards his face and she giggled, her cherubic face scrunching up with laughter as she reached harder for the swaying strands of his hair. He smiled back at her, and she made another happy noise, a prolonged, indiscernible syllable, almost like singing in a language no one but her knew. She opened her eyes and looked up at him with sparkling blue eyes, gazing at him with something almost resembling expectancy._

_He sighed gently, looking around the room to make sure Hinahoho and Rurumu were still absorbed in each other. He moved to the back of the room and opened his mouth, letting out a soft, quiet verse as he coddled the child to his chest. A place she could both hear his voice and feel the vibrations the sound made, feel his heartbeat beneath his sternum as her head lulled against his narrow torso, her small hand falling to rest against the hollow of his throat, giving up its attempts to pull at his hair. He kept singing, closing his eyes as he swayed with the child, not noticing when she stopped making sounds back at him, or when the door closed, marking Hinahoho’s exit._

_He continued his verse through to the end before opening his eyes to look at the small angel. His eyebrows pulled down, confused as he looked at the now sleeping baby._

_“You’re good with him,” Rurumu noted from significantly closer than he remembered her being and he frowned. How could he have gotten so distracted he didn’t even notice one of the people in the room was gone? That the one is his arms went from giggling and squirming out of his grasp to being complacent and sound asleep. That his mother figure went from being across the room to standing within arms reach. If this were a hostile environment he’d be dead, well, more likely captured, but he would be fucked. Hell, the company could be under attack and he would have no God damn idea._ ‘What the hell is wrong with me?! I could be dead, they could have been slaughtering half the company and I’d have no idea, they could have killed Hinahoho, Rurumu, the kids and I’d be just fucking _standing_ here doing nothing, Why? Why am I like this right now? How can I protect anyone right now?! I’m failing Sin _again!_ I can’t do the _one_ thing I’m good at! I- I-’ _His heart quickened and he could feel his face getting hot. Rurumu took the child from him, and his arms stayed rigid in their position._

_She laid the child down next to her sister before turning to face Ja’far’s aghast expression and frozen posture. She took his hands in hers, calming the trembling that had started up. Frightened green eyes snapped up to meet hers, the color muted in fear and brimming with tears, redness rimming his widened eyes and eyelashes already damp as the tears overtook their boundaries and slipping down freckled, reddened cheeks, his breath coming uneasy and tightly in his chest._

_“Ja’far, what’s wrong?” Her voice was concerned, worry lacing her gentle words._

_“I-this- I can’t, I didn’t,” he stuttered out and she crouched down, pulling him to her chest in a firm, soothing hug, rubbing her hand down his back. “I’m.. I’m.. they could.. “_

_“This isn’t about Sinbad is it?” He shook his head, tears falling from faster and he struggled for breath. “Ja’far, I need you to calm down.” He showed no signs of improving and she sighed, “Ja’far you’re going to wake the twins,” she tried and he went still, not making a sound as his body trembled. She pulled him back a little bit, “breathe Ja’far,” she urged, and he tried, taking deep shuddering breaths. "Come, sing that song for me again." He glanced over to the child he had just put to sleep._

_"O-okay." It wasn't as calm, or as gently as it had been the first time he sang it, his voice hitching at times, and the pitch uneven with his emotions. But she smiled as the verse continued, noticing the slowing of his breath, and receding flush from his face._

_"Where did you learn that?" She asked him._

_"Sin. I had nightmares for awhile after Valefor's dungeon. He heard me yelling apparently, and lost a chunk of hair when he barged in the room and I attacked him." He remembered that night, falling asleep against Sin's chest as he slept. Never before had he had such ease falling asleep around people. He woke up the next morning just about strangled in Sinbad's hair, and demanded to know why the man was in his bed. Sin had responded sheepishly that he didn't want to risk waking Ja'far after all the effort it took the boy to fall asleep, so he just stayed. Ja'far had turned a pretty shade of red before thrusting a pillow in Sinbad's face and leaving to wash up._

_"It's a lovely lullaby." Ja'far nodded slowly, pondering his next words._

_“Rurumu, would you hate me if you knew me being here… was endangering your kids? Your husband? Pipirika?” His eyes were on the floor, fearful of her response._

_“What are you talking about Ja’far?”_

_“I’m a liability, I’m a piss poor assassin, and my old guild, the organization, will come after me one day. They could hurt people here. They may target the ones who are weak, the children, and I can’t… I can’t protect anyone.”_

_“I would never hate you Ja’far. Neither would Hina, or Drakon, or even Serendine. Everyone here brought burdens. We are all here for each other though, at least that’s what I feel.”_

_“It’s not safe with me here.”_

_“Do you think any of us would worry any less if you left us? Do you think I wouldn’t worry just because you aren’t here anymore? I would worry dearly for you my child. Whether you were ok or not, if you were hurt. If you were even unhappy. I’m sure Sinbad would say the same. You are important to everyone Ja’far. What would your brother think if you left? And the twins need their big brother too. You are a part of this family. If you are truly so concerned, talk to him about it.”_

“Sin, as much as I appreciate what you’ve done for us, I have to be honest. Mahad, Vittel and I _are_ probably threatening the safety of everyone here.”

“What are you talking about? Vittel couldn’t hurt a fly, and as colorful as your mouth can be you’re almost as caring as Rurumu when you want to be.”

“I don’t mean us personally. The organization won’t let us off forever. They’ll come for us one day, and probably not in a way you’ll be well suited to dealing with. It’ll be backwards, it’ll be designed to hurt as many people as possible. We, well I really, pissed off Falan. They aren’t just going to write that off,” his chest tightened as he spoke. As much as he didn’t want to leave, or deprive Mahad and Vittel of their life here, particularly Vittel, he was never suited to be an assassin. He was too kind, too soft. But he couldn’t keep endangering everyone here. He couldn’t risk people getting hurt because of him. “I’m willing to do anything for you and this country, and I’ll fight to my last breath to make it happen, but I will not let people die because of me.”

“Ja’far. That’s enough.” Sinbad was practically growling, gritting the words through his teeth. He felt Sin’s hand behind his head and he was pulled forward and summarily crushed to his friend’s broad chest. “You just said you would stay with me. You all are. No one is going anywhere. Not for those reasons anyway. If they come they come, and we’ll face them. This darkness they want to spread, I was going to stop it whether you were involved or not. What they did in that dungeon, they won’t be doing it to people for much longer. It’s deranged and twisted, and I’m going to end them. And they aren’t taking any of you from me.” Ja’far was still, arms pinned against his own chest, small frame positioned awkwardly with one leg to the left of Sinbad and the other folded between Sin’s criss crossed legs, and if he weighed more this would probably be terribly uncomfortable. Ja’far now recognized Sin’s previous tone was not angry, but thick with worry and sorrow.

“Sin-“

“If you really want to talk about, let’s do it another time. For tonight, can we just, leave it at that.” He thought for a moment, unsure of how to respond. _‘It will probably be awhile before they act, there wasn’t anyone in our ranks that could be entrusted with this kind of mission. If I couldn’t take down Sinbad, they’ll think carefully before sending someone else to tangle with him. ‘_

“Okay.” _If he really wants me to stay, if he really wants such a useless assassin by his side, I’ll make myself useful somehow. This promise between us is double edged, he can’t disappoint me, and I won’t let myself disappoint him._ It took a few more minutes before Sinbad released Ja’far and let him pull back. Sinbad pulled back the sheet on the bed and lied down, holding it up for Ja’far to crawl under, and they lay like that, silent apart from their breaths, inhaling and exhaling. They were both riddled with exhaustion, but unwilling to let sleep claim them just yet. Sinbad pulled forward, pressing a kiss against Ja’far’s hair, holding him for just a moment, before laying back and letting his eyes fall closed.

“Goodnight Ja’far, and thank you. I’ve been worried about that for awhile,” his eyes remained closed as he spoke, his tone drawing slower as the words went on, “about them coming for the three of you. I’m a bit more thoughtful than I look,” Ja’far smiled at that, “and I was afraid one day I just wouldn’t be able to find you. You’re kind, and ruthless. And I’m not oblivious, I know you’ve been weighing the choices. But please, just stay.” His hand found Ja’far’s and gave a small squeeze. “I know you would put their safety above your own well being, but try protecting them before leaving them. And I’ll protect you.” He was silent for a few moments before he spoke a few more words, ones that almost slipped past even Ja’far’s trained ears, “I wish I could have saved you sooner.” Ja’far wasn’t sure if Sin had meant to say that, or if it was sleep speaking, but a tear ran down his face regardless. His heart swelling painfully in his chest and the care he had experienced since joining this ragtag of misfits. He had more people looking out for him in the short time he had been here than in the ten years of life that led up to this experience. He couldn’t say the same of his parents, of anyone he knew at the organization. He had been alone. Alone as he struggled, as he was beaten, as he was molded by cruelty. And suddenly, it was care and concern that was molding his development.

The child who had been shaped to kill, who had murdered his own blood, would rather be killed than see these people he had known a fraction of a year be hurt. Would rather risk life and limb for this man he had once tried to gut in his sleep than put blood on those tanned hands. He was still working, his temper was short and his morals were skewed, but he was changing. He watched Sin as he slept, thinking about the words that were said.

 _‘Sin… You really are something. Something powerful, and terrifying. I hope I see this dream of ours become reality. Some of us.. are only human though. I hope you’re right, about all of us making it. I’ll do my best, to protect them all with my life. To protect you.’_ He pulled the wire on his arm taught, drawing blood from the healing scabs beneath the weapon. ‘ _I won’t let any of you be hurt.’_ Then, his breath held in his throat when he felt a tug on his arm from the man he thought was already asleep.

“Ja’far, what happened to your arm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it feels more Sinjaish than I had initially thought. Oh well. Let me know what you think.


	3. A path paved with nightmares

“Ja’far, what happened to your arm?”

            Ja’far looked down, seeing trail of blood working its way down his arm, the smear of it on the bedsheet. _Fuck_.

            “Ja’far, what happened to your arm?” Sin asked again, his think eyebrows were pinched, his face contorted with worry, a look that did not befit his friend, and that caused his chest to tighten inexplicably. He felt like his ribs had closed in, squeezing his heart and lungs, but it wasn’t.. unpleasant. It was.. warming.. to see Sinbad concerned for him. Before these people, the only concern anyone ever had for the kid was whether or not he’d flubbed his missions, whether he had given away information when he got caught, whether he had screwed up in a way that would inconvenience the organization.

It didn’t matter to them it he had been left to starve in some desolate cellar when he was caught trying to assassinate a foreign prince. They couldn’t care less when the eight year old was nearly strangled to death by another guild member. They barely batted an eye when he returned from a mission with half his ribs shattered his lung punctured. Because that didn’t concern them, after all, Ja’far would keep working despite his injuries or traumas. Broken bones barely slowed him down, he kept his cloak tucked around his neck to hide the bruising, he did his best to ignore the pain when he swallowed of his recovering esophagus, he limped as minutely as he could when they had ripped through his thighs and calves for their experiment. Hadn’t stopped when his hastily done stitches had become infected and given him a fever that’s temperature gave hell competition.

Ja’far was not their chief assassin for his skill in taking down targets alone. It was for his durability, his uncanny talent for escaping situations, his toughness when he took a beating, and his unwillingness to let anything stop him. He was loud mouthed and temperamental, but he was an asset.

As his eyes met Sin’s, and he saw his own reflection, his disheveled hair and despairing gaze, he responded. “I failed.”

“What do you mean Ja’far?” Sin sat up again, pulling his shirt off before grasping Ja’far’s wrist, fingers lapsing over each other as they curled around the thin extremity, his other hand pulling the wires away from their places, revealing the numerous gauges in the pale skin, carved with anger and disappointment, but clean and precise, the mark of a deliberate hand, and no simple accident.

“I failed to stop you from going, and I failed to save you after that match. I was too weak, and I left you with her. Failing means you have to be punished.”

“You did this.. because of me?” Sin ran his thumb across one of the scabbed wounds, something unsettling in his frown, and pain clear in the lines on his face.

“No. I did it because of me.” Ja’far tried to pull the offending arm out of Sin’s grasp, but he would not yield.

“I don’t want you to ever, _ever,_ do this again Ja’far.” Sin’s voice wavered for a moment, but his tone was not to be argued with, full of both desperation and conviction. “People make mistakes, and you didn’t even do that. That wasn’t your fault, it was my arrogance, and it was my arrogance that got those kids killed instead of trusting you to help me. If it wasn’t for you-“

“If it wasn’t for me than nothing!” Ja’far’s voice rose, and he pulled harder at his arm before giving up and slumping forward, head falling against Sin’s bare chest as fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. “You had things under control, hell you freed dozens of kids on top of yourself, what I did doesn’t mean fucking anything compared to that. I couldn’t do anything on my own! If I had been stronger, or smarter, I could have helped kept her from hurting you!” his voice broke and his shoulders were trembling. _I never used to cry like this… I never used to care like this… I don’t know what to do with this, these feelings. I can’t stop feeling so frustrated and defeated. I never used to feel anxiety like I did the other day. I get why they wanted to beat them all out of me, all of these feelings, these conflicting thoughts, they’re debilitating…_

“Ja’far, if I didn’t know I had you on the other side of all that, I would have given up the first day. I wouldn’t have tried so hard to survive, to get back to what I had here. I would have just laid down and frozen to death in that room.” Bleary green eyes, rimmed with purple circles and redness, the pure reflection of too many tormented nights met equally deprived golden ones, undulated adoration bright as he locked onto Ja’far’s gaze. Ja’far’s eyes dropped to his neck, where the splotched and calloused skin was now on full display for him, and he reached up, running his fingers along the roughened skin, another set of tears spilling down his cheeks, wiped away by a tan thumb. “Promise me, you’ll try not to do this again,” Sin says, pulling Ja’far into his lap, curling his arm under the boys knees and supporting his shoulders with the other. Normally, Ja’far isn’t keen on coddling. He’ll take being close to people on his own terms, be it standing or talking or giving affection. He was a creature born into solitude, and pruned to keep people at a distance, only advancing when needed, and often from darkness and with subtlety. He had changed a lot since joining this crew of rejects. Beginning, and only beginning and extremely conditionally, enjoy proximity. Rurumu had given him a few gentle lessons recently about proper conversational distances. Apparently he was extreme on both ends, either remaining distant, or being uncomfortably close. Ja’far didn’t quite see what the problem was, if he was speaking to someone why it was odd to be almost toe to toe, after all, that way they could speak quieter and not be overheard, and it showed he was paying attention to the person he was talking to. _Maybe that was what Sin meant earlier, about sitting in his lap. That it was weird to other people._ Ja’far wasn’t sure. He was still new to this, to people, to interactions, to feelings. “I know habits are hard to break, but promise me you’ll try. I don’t want you punishing yourself.. Not for anything. Mistakes get made, and we learn from them, we don’t have to be hurt because of them. You aren’t a part of that place anymore. I don’t care if you want to keep some of your quirks you learned there, but I want you to be safe.” His grasp around Ja’far tightened.

“That’s all I know… Messing up means punishments.”

“Do you think I should be punished?” Ja’far’s head snapped up to look at Sinbad.

“No,” he said firmly.

“Then why should you?”

“Because…” _Because I deserve it. Because you’re not a piece of trash like I am. Because you didn’t fail the person you had sworn to help make King, you didn’t allow the man that should grow into a noble King in shackles._

“You’re too hard on yourself Ja’far.”

“I can’t be by your side if I’m this useless.”

“You aren’t useless. You’re determined, intelligent, and caring. I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side. We won’t always agree, but that may be best. I trust you to always tell me when you don’t agree with me, when you think we could be doing something better. I trust you to always look out for our country, and I may rely on those skills you have to keep us all safe,” Sinbad looked sheepish admitting that last bit. “I know I pulled you from the organization, and I would wish more than anything to never have you kill someone again, but I don’t think you would let me stop you from using your skills.” Ja’far nodded. _I already committed myself to that. Sin… Sometimes it’s unnerving how well you read me._

“If you desired it, I would do most anything.”

“I never, _ever_ , want you to do something you don’t want to do simply because I ask it of you, do you understand me Ja’far?” Ja’far scoffed at him, _I don’t enjoy killing, I don’t. Knowing I’m ending someone’s life, but I don’t know what I would do with myself if I didn’t kill. The other might think I’m a monster for that, people as gentle as Mystras, or unjustifiably concerned as Sin, would be appalled at my disregard for the people I kill. It doesn’t cross my mind that they have families, or that they have friends, and it probably never will. I don’t kill because of some sick enjoyment of the act, and I don’t drag it out or prolong anyone’s suffering. Most my targets never even saw me coming, wouldn’t have felt a thing as they moved out of this life. I kill because I have to, but I’m strangely okay with it. I could never explain that to Sin or the others._

“I’d like to see you try and make me do something I don’t want to do,” Ja’far smiled, bringing about that false confidence he had clutched so dearly in the times before Sinbad. Trying to banish his weakness and tears to the recesses of his being.

“I would never do that to you,” Sin says. He runs his thumb beneath Ja’far’s eye, “You don’t look like you’ve slept much.” Ja’far shrugs. “My fault I suppose,” Sinbad mutters.

“I was worried.” _And not unjustly so._ Ja’far thinks, reflecting on what Sin had shared about his time beneath Maader. _Maybe one day, I’ll be able to tell him, about my time in Sham Lash…_ “And you don’t look like you’ve slept either.”

“I try, but I can’t stay asleep. Dreams.”

“About?”

“Still being there. Being afraid of getting punished, the kids we lost, of being lost like that again, sometimes its not even a dream so much as a feeling, like a rock is on my chest crushing me.” Ja’far pulled himself from Sin’s grasp for what felt like the tenth time that night.

“Lay down,” Ja’far said, and Sin obliged. Ja’far slid down next to him, reaching over to stroke Sinbad’s hair before beginning to sing the lullaby Sinbad once used to quell Ja’far’s own nightmares. Nightmares of being consumed by darkness. Of being alone interminably. Of living with his conflict. Of dying. “You’re safe here now,” Ja’far spoke when he was finished, smiling when as Sinbad’s chest rose and fell evenly, breath escaping through parted lips as he dozed, face smooth of the harsh lines it had been carved with throughout the day.

 _Solomon help that woman if I ever see her again,_ Ja’far thought as his own eyes slipped closed, his hand ceasing it’s ministrations to fall on Sin’s chest, where his heart thumped beneath his palm, it’s own lullaby to the anxiety that had plagued the freckled child since he had left his friend’s side. That night was the soundest either of them had slept since they had been separated, a curse of an experience that slowly showed each of them how much the other had grown to mean in the short time since fate had brought them together in the first place.

­­­­­­­___________________________________

Ja’far woke the next morning crushed to Sinbad’s chest, his arms wrapped tight around his torso. Ja’far grumbled incomprehensibly, extracting himself from the hold, and trying to bury the growing anxiety concerning his potentially already dulling skills as he left the bed. It was just before sunrise, Ja’far realized as he exited the cabin, seeing the faintest glimmers of light on the horizon as the brightness of the sun began to overtake the black expanse of sky above. If nothing had changed substantially during the night they would arrive at the trading company in a matter of hours. On the other side of the ship, facing the direction they were preceding from, a small child sat atop the railing, bright red hair standing out even in the substantial darkness.

“Hey, that’s not safe!” Ja’far called as he walked over to the kid. The child’s head turned, revealing pointed almond shaped eyes. “Come on now, get down from there,” Ja’far supposed he could have been a little less gruff, but considering his state, he was just relieved he didn’t snap or curse at the kid. He was still reigning in his foul vernacular, courtesy of a series of harsh reprimandings from Rurumu.

“I’m fine here.” The kid responded curtly. Ja’far sighed, deciding he didn’t want to argue this early, and stepping further forward to rest his elbows along the rail beside the child.

“What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?” Ja’far’s eyebrow twitched. _This brat is trying my patience_.

“Ja’far.”

“Masrur.” Masrur offered no other semblance of conversation, so Ja’far resigned to watching the water flow behind the boat in silence. The sun was almost to full sunrise, warming their backs before Masrur spoke again. “You’re Sinbad’s friend.” It wasn’t a question, but Ja’far felt the need to affirm the suspicion with a nod. Then, realizing the kid was still turned forward toward the water he spoke, throat thick with lingering sleep and disuse.

“Yeah.”

“Were you there?” Ja’far looked at Masrur then, but Masrur did not do the same.

“Where?” Ja’far asked, realizing Masrur wasn’t going to elaborate further without provocation.

“When I fought him.” Ja’far frowned, looking back out to the water when Masrur continued to avoid eye contact.

“I was.”

“Are you angry?” Suddenly the dull red eyes _were_ looking at him, and Ja’far felt scrutinized under the younger’s gaze.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you angry I beat him?” Ja’far looked at the Masrur more closely, realizing the purpose of the conversation, and knowing Masrur assumed Ja’far was angry with him for beating Sinbad.

“I’m not mad at you at all.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t do anything,” something clicked in Ja’far’s head then, the same words Sinbad had said to him the previous night now falling from his own lips in consolation to the boy who had inadvertently caused Sinbad’s enslavement. Yet, the words Ja’far had answered with were nothing but truthful, he was not the least bit angry with the child who had beaten his friend. He held no resentment, not even a little bit, and it surprised him. He didn’t want to feel that way towards the kid, knowing at heart it was not ill will Masrur had held against Sinbad, simply a child following orders, but he had still expected the vile emotion to be there, for it to be something he would have to push down over time. But he felt none of that. If anything he felt sympathy, and relief that Sinbad had done what he did to rescue these other children, these other lost souls blindly following possibly the only light, however dim or misshapen, they had known in their short lives.

“Ok.” They remained there for some more time, at peace with the movement of the ship atop the ocean.

“Come on, let’s get you some food,” Ja’far said after awhile, placing a hand on Masrur’s shoulder. Masrur looked at his hand before raising his gaze to Ja’far’s smiling face and nodding, hopping nimbly down from the railing to follow Ja’far to the food stores.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay and the abrupt chapter end. I had a lot going on with school and my fiancé’s grandmother got diagnosed with cancer. I’m going to try my best to stay on a weekly schedule now.
> 
> I will also try and make the chapters a little bit longer. 
> 
> See you all soon!


	4. And horrible days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sinbad and Ja'far arrive home, they try and find their places in the company again, and Rurumu tries to help mend some feelings.

 

“Ja’far…” Masrur started, putting down his spoon. Ja’far turned, closing the cabinet he was rummaging through, dark eyes gazing at the seated child.

“What is it Masrur?”

“What am I supposed… to do now?” Masrur didn’t meet his eyes, looking intently into the bowl instead.

“That’s up to you really,” Ja’far started, sitting down beside Masrur. He didn’t know much about the kid, except that he was an abnormally strong kid, and the one that had beaten Sinbad with that strength, and that like Sinbad, he was probably coerced by Maader.

“But I don’t know what to do… I’ve never done anything besides fight…”

“It kind of sucks, but that’s what freedom is,” he puts his hand gently on Masrur’s shoulder, and bright red eyes turn to meet his, confused, and frightened eyes. Ja’far looks forward, releasing Masrur and lacing his fingers together in front of him, watching his thumbs twiddle. “I-I know what you’re feeling. Before I met Sin, all I did was kill people.. I was an assassin, and then, Sinbad gave me the same freedom he gave you, and I- couldn’t imagine I could be good at anything else, and I was lost.. But I found home here, and family, and if you’re unsure if this is the right choice, give it some time.. at the least. Talk to Sin, meet the rest of us, give it a chance to be something good. I want what’s best for you, if you find that isn’t here, we’ll help you try and find what to do next. I promise you that,” Ja’far tried his best to smile, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt, feeling the discomfort and heat coming off of him as he thought and shared his own discomforts. He felt like his cheeks were on fire, and his toes twitched in his shoes.

“If he helped you so much, why’d you hurt him before?” Ja’far’s back straightened, and he stilled, before giving a small laugh.

“Because, I’m still new to talking, and he wanted to give up because some people got hurt, and I got mad. He said he wasn’t any better than the people he was trying to be better than, and it made me irrationally angry to hear him talk that way about himself. He’s.. so much better than that,” Ja’far paused, feeling Masrur’s eyes on him, and turned to meet his gaze.

“I’ll… try… ok?” Masrur tried hesitantly.

“Okay,” Ja’far smiled, taking Masrur’s hand and standing. “Let’s try and get you some rest before we reach the company. Masrur nodded, standing next to Ja’far, and they walked back to his room.

 

Ja’far walks back to the deck on his own, Masrur had started snoring just after his head hit the pillow, and it was only at that point that he released Ja’far’s hand. He set his elbows on the railing, before opting to climb up, and dangle his leg off the side and curl his torso around the limb. The night air was chilly, not enough for him to really notice, but enough to know it was there. He wasn’t sensitive to cold, not anymore. Not after spending so long in ice-cold sleeping quarters and cells. His body gave a shiver unrelated to the cold, a motion he hadn’t felt in some time.

He reached out, fingers stretching towards the horizon, before he pulls them back, clutched in a fist, tight against his chest.

‘ _I’m happy here, right?’_ He rises to his feet then, toeing off his shoes to fall on the inside of the ship, bare toes curling around the very edge of the railing. Air blows his night shirt around, billowing it around his still small form. A sound reaches him and he spins around, one blade already free.

“Whoa whoa, just me.” Sinbad says, hands outstretched. “Come on, I’m sure your balance is great, but can we get you down. Please?” He steps forward, placing his hand within reach of Ja’far. “Come on.” He gestures for Ja’far to come forward. Ja’far takes his hand, the warmth of it a pleasant change to the cold of the air, pale fingers wrapping around his palm. “What were you doing up there?”

“Just, enjoying the view.” Sinbad frowns, seeing how unfocused his eyes are, and how on edge he seemed to be at the sound of someone else, on a ship, in the middle of the sea, full of their own people.

“Do you feel safe here?” Sinbad asks, as Ja’far’s feet hit the ground, barely making any kind of sound, and Sinbad can’t help but be a little impressed, both with Ja’far and with himself at ever having been able to fend off the brat. Ja’far stayed silent, looking off to the side. “Hey, come on now.” He puts his hand on his shoulder, then pulls it away, opting instead to place it on the cold skin of Ja’far’s cheek, gently turning his head to face him.

“I do…” Ja’far mumbles, eyes still downcast.

“Then why are you so on edge?” Sinbad rubs his cheek with his thumb, taking his Ja’far’s hand with his other, pulling the blade from his grasp.

“If I don’t stay sharp, then what use am I?” Ja’far laughs, a hoarse and humorless laugh, and Sinbad’s grip on his hand tightens.

“You worry me when you talk like that. If I haven’t made it clear already, you have a place here whether you want to use those skills or not, your position isn’t conditional.” Sinbad drops to one knee, putting himself more on level with the boy and squeezes his hand. “If you wanted to toss those blades in the ocean right now and be a pacifist you would still have a home here.”

“Who would watch your overly trusting back then,” Ja’far says, giving Sinbad’s hand a squeeze back. “I know that, Sin.”

“Sin?” He asks, smile widening on his face.

“Sinbad,” Ja’far corrects, meeting Sinbad’s gaze and tilting his head in confusion at the broad smile stretched across the young man’s face.

“Sin is fine, Ja’far,” he says, standing up then and ruffling white hair as he turns around. He stretches his arms above his head, his shoulder popping loudly. “We’ll be home in a few hours, join me for some breakfast?”

“Of course.. Sin.”

 

“Welcome home!” The festivities struck almost as soon as the ship had touched port, everyone graciously welcoming Sinbad back to their company. Drinks were shared, and food was served, much nicer than the stores they had on the ship, so Ja’far made sure to present a rather hearty plate to Sinbad himself, having noticed, once he had calmed down, that the man was not quite in the shape he used to be, and would need proper nourishment, or at least a substantial amount since Sinbad’s diet had never been very well rounded to begin with.

As the party continued Ja’far excused himself, still not accustomed to large groups of people, and have a bit of sensory overload at all the noises, sights and smells associated with masses of people. He decided instead to go see Rurumu, knowing she would be with her children, and would pay her visit to Sinbad herself later, in a more private manner.

“Rurumu?” He called as his knuckles rapped on the door. Rather than an answer, the door itself was opened for him, and Hinahoho’s face greeted him.

“Welcome back Ja’far,” the Imuchakk man said, opening the door wider to let Ja’far in. “I hear Sinbad brought some friends with him.” Ja’far nodded.

“Several of the children he had been around no longer had homes to return to, so he brought them back here with us.”

“Yes, we were told by a messenger when the ship docked that we had some new guests, I wasn’t told they were children though,” Rurumu spoke, laying down her youngest in the finely crafted crib.

“You know Sin, he couldn’t leave them.”

“No of course not, that wouldn’t be like him at all.”

“He did a few things that weren’t like him, that just wasn’t one of them,” Ja’far mutters, not quite concealing his lingering upset at his leader’s actions at the coliseum. Rurumu glances to Hinahoho, and he nods, knowing that look meant a couple of things.

“I’ll go collect the kids, I’m sure they could use a bath and some fresh clothes,” Hinahoho said, already making for the door, knowing too well his wife, whose heart was much larger than most in more ways than one, would make it her responsibility to make the children feel at home and assure they were cared for, and that she wanted some time to speak to Ja’far, to give him time to say some of the things he wouldn’t tell anyone else. Hinahoho smiled, feeling pride in his wife for her care, and her strength, and her ability to even make a loud-mouthed and distrusting assassin warm up to her to the point she was near his closest confidant. Ja’far looks up at him as he leaves, and Rurumu nods at him, and then the door clicks closed and his heavy footsteps fade away in the distance.

“Do you want to talk about it Ja’far?”

“There’s nothing to talk about, he was just being an idiot! He didn’t think we could handle it, and he was doing stuff on his own, and then the big dumbass starts saying he’s as bad as all the other Kings!”

“It sounds like there is a lot to talk about, Ja’far.” Ja’far huffs, crossing his arms. “And I thought we talked about those words,” she added gently.

“Sorry… He just made me so mad acting like that, and well then I hit him.”

“Okay, let’s start from the beginning, what do you mean he didn’t think we could handle it?” Ja’far’s face turned bright pink, and she held out a hand, “take a deep breath, calm down, and then try and explain it to me. Okay?”

“Okay,” he grumbled, taking in a breath like she asked, and letting it out. “That didn’t work I’m still mad.”

“Do it a few more times,” she urged. He bites back words about this being stupid, and how is breathing supposed to help anything, and does as she instructed.

“That’s.. a little bit better I guess.”

“Good,” she smiles, and he briefly wonders how in the world she has such patience for him. “Now, tell me what happened while you were away.”

“Well, we worked really hard on our plan right? On how to get Sinbad out of that contract?”

“Yes, and it was a very good plan and I’m very proud of you for it Ja’far.” He feels his ears warm at the praise, but tried to ignore it and keep going.

“It would have gone perfectly, but we get there, and Sin’s, he’s started a rebellion with the slaves, they’re pointing weapons at her, fighting guards, there are dead kids everywhere, it’s horrendous, well, the other shipmates thought it was. I… I didn’t really notice, I’m used to that sort of sight, but Sinbad, he, he didn’t think we could help him, he thought _he_ had to fix it, and then I got to him and he was sulking about how those kids were dead because of him,” Ja’far was pacing now, quick and small steps back and forth across the small span of floor, “and that he wasn’t any better than the other crappy Kings, and I was so mad, that he didn’t have faith in us to help him, and that he was giving up on his dream so easily, that I hit him… “

“I see. What happened after that?”

“You’re not mad I hit him?”

“I’m not mad no, I understand this is new for you, and you were hurt by what he did. Next time, try breathing first, so you aren’t quite so rash. Besides, you felt bad after hitting him didn’t you?”

“Maybe…”

“That’s good. Feeling bad about hurting people is an important step.”

“It’s not like I liked hurting people! It’s just…” he quieted, trying not to extend his outburst, “what I had to do…” _Is that the truth? Did I really not like hurting people? Or did I? this is so confusing. I thought I liked it, but then I had a choice, and I don’t_ want _to hurt people anymore, and not definitely anyone that hasn’t done anything to me, did I ever like killing? Or was I trying to make myself feel like I liked it, so it didn’t feel so terrible to have no say in what I did…_

“Relax, you don’t have to figure everything out right now. It’s okay to be confused, you’re making a lot of changes in your life, it’s okay not to understand. Just know that I’m proud of you for all the progress you’ve made.”

“Thanks… mom.”

“Knock knock,” Hinahoho calls as he opens the door, “we all good in here?”

“Excellent, come on in,” Rurumu says, beckoning them all in. “Ja’far, do you want to help me or would you like to go on to the festivities?”

“I can help,” he starts when Hinahoho speaks up.

“Go on back Ja’far, I can help her. Make sure Sinbad is still in one piece, and at least moderately sober.” Ja’far nods, running off, making it half down the hall before turning around and poking back in.

“Thanks Rurumu, Hinahoho,” he waves, pulling the door shut, and not another sound comes from his end.

“That’s, unnerving. How he can do that.” Rurumu shrugs before speaking to the children.

“Okay kids, let’s get you guys cleaned up, and then we’ll go talk to President Sinbad. Who’s first,” she calls cheerily, and a little girl volunteers herself, “alright, one more, we have to showers open.”

“Um, we usually shower together, so you can get this over with faster,” one of the littler ones says.

“If that’s what you want, you’re welcome to, but time isn’t a worry. You’ll be well cared for here, take your time. Hinahoho walks away, ducking into the bathroom to start the water.

“Well, it’s ready for whoever wants to go first,” he says, standing beside Rurumu and placing an arm around her shoulders. One of the kids goes inside, albeit hesitantly, before coming back out, eyes bright and smile wide.

“The water is hot! And clean! Come look!” The kids rush inside and Rurumu smiles before turning to her husband.

“Should probably start the other one as well,” she comments before walking to a closet and pulling out a stack of towels. “Here are some clean towels whenever you kids are ready,” she calls, setting them just inside the door without looking inside. “And the other shower is ready if you’d like some more room.” There was silence before a couple of kids bolted through the door, clad in towels and still dripping, flashing into the other door Hinahoho held open.

“Good to see they have some energy now,” he says smiling, letting the door fall closed. “Everything all right Rurumu?”

“Ja’far seems troubled, I worry about him.”

“What happened?”

“Sinbad did something foolish, but he’s just so downtrodden all the time. Its painful to watch him.”

“Just keep being there, like you have been. He’s been through a lot, as long as we keep giving support, he’ll come around.”

“I’ll talk to Sinbad, I’m sure he didn’t _mean_ anything like what Ja’far felt his actions implied, but right now, he needs explicit reassurances, and that boy looks up to Sinbad like an idol.”

“I wonder why,” Hinahoho chuckles. “Sinbad admires him too.”

“I think it’s a little more than admiration,” she smiles behind her hand, thickly lashed eyes beaming lovingly at her love across the room. “We’ll see, as they get a bit older. Ja’far is only twelve, and I’m not sure he’d have any what to do with feelings like those. He’s still getting used to bare camaraderie.”

“I never said today, I just said they’re important to each other, and could build off each other.”

“They will make a great team.”

“Like us?”

“Like us.” They round up the children then, dressing them all and brushing hair. Cleaning teeth and clipping nails. “All right children, let’s go, follow me.” The children that had been rambunctious were suddenly quite solemn as they followed her down the hall. “I’m going to speak to President Sinbad, when I say, you can come in and join us. Ok? Let’s go Hinahoho.” She pulls open a door, leading them to the noise and room filled with vigor and spirit.

“Hinahoho, Rurumu…” Sinbad says, noticing the couple after having greeted Pipirika.

“It’s good that you’re back safely. Did you know that I served as the head of the company during your absence?”

“Yes…”

“Well, then you know just what I want to say to you don’t you. I heard everything from Ja’far. About what happened. And what you did there… Everything.”

“I see,” his eyes cast to the side, his expression fallen from the ease he had held earlier, weighted with the weight of what he did there.

“Don’t misunderstand. I don’t blame you. However, I wanted you to have faith in all of us… Without having to start such a dangerous rebellion. At least… For Ja’far’s sake. He worked harder than any of us to make it right.” Sinbad’s eyes travel again, looking to his friend, his face falling even further, remembering the marks on the boy’s forearms, and the sadness in his eyes. How much it must have hurt, for Ja’far to think the reason he had acted, was because of a lack of faith.

“Yeah…”

“Talk to him later,” Hinahoho whispers, giving a gentle thumbs up while Rurumu watches Ja’far interact with Vittel.

“That’s it for your lecture. With a face like that, you won’t set an example for the children. Come on in everyone,” she calls, and the door opens revealing the kids Sinbad had rescued from slavery, clean and freshly clothed, and apprehensions written all over their little faces.

Ja’far looks over after having spoken to, and consoled Vittel, watches Sinbad give his speech, his tone renewed with hope, and Ja’far smiles, heart fluttering at the sight of his friend back on his feet, back on track for his future, the future they dreamed of together.

“Won’t you become citizens of my country?” He hears Sinbad say, and it’s then, he decided to walk away. _Citizens of my country huh… I can help him build it.. But after that, I should probably go. Let the organization and Al Sarmen follow me elsewhere. Don’t let them get involved in this, don’t let them lose anything else. Not for me. I’m not worth that. Solomon hope I have enough time before they come after me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! Another chapter down. We will probably be seeing Al Sarmen, I’m not entirely sure how far this story will go, but I will probably have some of the Zepar dungeon stuff, maybe go on to the Partevia fall out, and if there is anything you guys want to see let me know. I’m open to ideas.   
> Until next time!  
> AsthmaticGlader


	5. The trail I've left behind me

**Alright, bear with me here. I tried to pay a lot of attention to detail in the plotline for the first chapters with the slave arc, now I’m going to go a little looser, so if some things aren’t quite right in canon, let me know, but I’m trying to get chapters out in a reasonable time frame so things may be a little off because I’m going off of memory rather than tracking down each detail in the chapters themselves. So here we go.**

Ja’far went to his room early, despite the lingering activities in the main areas. Everyone was happy Sin was home, happy their president was safe, and despite the reassurances while he was away that their jobs and the company was safe, it was an additional relief to everyone when Sinbad himself was back. Ja’far was sitting on the edge of the bed, palms upturned, wires still wrapped tautly around his arms, a constant reassurance, a safety blanket, a necessary armament. His eyes trailed upward, studying the woodgrain on the door, the dark stain of it and the golden handle, absently pulling at his weaponry.

_Is it better… To be around to protect them… Or to pull the fire away from them…_ He shakes his head, not knowing what the right choice is. As much as the lure of freedom attracts him, as much as he wants to be able to be a part of this, he can’t help but be fearful, of what his past could mean for their future. He wasn’t sure, if Mahad and Vittel would be enough reason for organization to trouble themselves with Sindria trading company, hell, he wasn’t _positive_ he was enough to warrant their involvement. But the _threat,_ the ominousness of it all, the mere idea that his presence could be detrimental.

He signed on with the idea that his skills could be helpful, not that they could be a beacon for trouble, something that would cause pain to those he had grown to care for. Oh how it would be easier to not care, to just do as he pleased, even knees deep in the organization he wasn’t that way, there were orders that haunted him, there were reasons he was punished far more often than others. There was a reason his small body was littered with scars, and that the reason for those scars extended outside of incidents where a kill hadn’t proceeded cleanly.

After all, you don’t raise a murderer on love and support. You don’t cultivate a killer using kind words and gentle reassurances.

Killers don’t come from families whose mommies and daddies told them they loved them, and he was born to be a killer. He just didn’t have the heart for it, so they tried to make him, and he did, in a way. Grew to accept it at the least, cope, and take the beatings, lashings and everything else as best he could.

“Hey,” he looked up, having heard the slightly stumbling footsteps long before they stalled in front of his door.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep Sin?” Ja’far asks, toeing off his shoes before pulling his legs up under himself.

“Not working out so well,” he says, “can I come in?”

“You’re in already aren’t you?” Sin rolled his eyes.

“May I stay in then?”

“I suppose,” he says, small smile on his face while looking up at the man who still bore a scar on his neck, and matching ones to his wrists and the lift to his lip fell. Despite his reassurances, it still soured the lighthearted banter.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Sinbad says, sitting down beside Ja’far and putting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Then talk, I’m tired, and there’s a lot to be done tomorrow.”

“Ja’far, thank you,” he pulls him into a hug, and Ja’far could feel the slight tremble in the man holding him. “For helping, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Ja’far’s eyes water, a tear slipping down his cheeks, getting absorbed in Sin’s shirt and his hands come up to grip the back of Sin’s shirt, clutching him close and feeling his breath hitch, tears falling faster and breathing getting shallower and more rapid as he sobbed, and Sin held on, running his fingers through pale hair and rubbing his other hand down the boys back in what he hoped was a soothing motion, and stopping, feeling the faint unevenness of the skin beneath the thin night shirt.

“Sin,” the tears have quieted, but the grip on his shirt hasn’t loosened.

“Ja’far, will you show me…” Ja’far doesn’t say anything as he releases his vice grip, and he stays silent as he turns around, his back to Sinbad, pushing his palms into his eyes, desperately, and futilely wiping away the tears that didn’t quite stop. He grabs at the hem of his shirt, running his fingers along the fabric before tugging it off, not missing the poorly concealed gasp behind him. “How long?”

“I don’t know. When I was an assassin, time wasn’t really relevant, or measureable. I’d spend days in the dark, passing between countries so seasons didn’t tell me much. I have estimates, but nothing for sure.”

“These were before we met?” Ja’far wasn’t sure if it was a question, or a statement, or a question he was hoping to make a statement, trying to will it to fruition.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t see them in Artemyra. I mean I saw some, but not all of this…” Sinbad trails off, and Ja’far shrugs, reaching for his shirt when he feels rough fingers tracing the scars on his back. Ja’far didn’t know what they looked like anymore, he didn’t actively avoid looking at them, but he didn’t ever _want_ to see them either. He knew they were high in numbers, probably hundreds of old lash marks and they were in various stages of healing, from pale white to more angry red, some just before he defaulted, some from as early as five, and looking at them dredged back memories of that dark room, of iron and chlorine, of ammonia and feces, it was disgusting, vile, and it plagued his nightmares in the few hours of night he succumbed to fitful, light sleep.

“I made it a point, to keep most of it at a distance. Not turn my back on you or Mystoras, and we were all distracted. Pre-occupied.” Sinbad dropped his head, resting his forehead on Ja’far’s back.

“I’m sorry Ja’far.” Ja’far felt water hit his back, and he shifted, facing Sinbad sideways and Sin brushed a thumb on a scar between a couple of Ja’far’s ribs on his left side. “This one?”

“Failed kill. Guy grabbed a knife and stabbed me before I got him. I thought he was asleep, he wasn’t. My fuck up.” Sinbad’s hand moved, grazing over a burn on his hip on the right.

“Ja’far-“

“If you ask me about every scar, we’ll be here all week.” Sinbad looks up, amber eyes filled with empathy and pain, and tears threatening to spill over. “It was a punishment. I didn’t kill a child that saw me kill her father, they said I was soft and…” he swallowed hard, looking down. “They killed the girl in front of me, and then one of them grabbed me, threw me down while I was looking at her,” he ran his hands over his face and Sinbad took his wrist, brushing a piece of hair out of the way, noticing a scar above his left brow.

“Ja’far-“

“Got tired of trying to hold me down, and they had my hands chained above my head, took my weapons, took my clothes, and held my legs open. I thought they were going to cut them open again, but they didn’t. Grabbed at me instead. Prodding and jabbing at me. I bit one of them and he hit me in the head with something,” he flicked his eyes up, indicating the scar Sin had fixated his gaze on. “Hard too, I was in and out for most of the rest, until they’d decided they were finished, and put the torch out on my skin, left me in the dark for days. Couldn’t move.” He dared to look up, but Sin wasn’t looking at him anymore. His posture was stiff, and he was looking past him, to the window.

“When?” Sinbad forced out through his teeth and Ja’far tilted his head, pulling his shirt back over his body.

“The first time, a few years ago.”

“First?” Sinbad looked at him, his eyes were molten, and Ja’far stiffened, Sinbad looked more than angry, he looked murderous, and Ja’far didn’t like being on the other end of that look. “They did that to you, more than once?!” He was almost yelling at this point, and his chest was heaving.

“Calm down,” Ja’far urged, putting his hand on Sinbad’s chest, over his heart, and despite his discomfort he held Sin’s fierce gaze.

“How can I… That’s…”

“Sin, there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s over.”

“Not for you. Is it?” Ja’far shifted.

“I manage.”

“Is that why you never sleep?” Sinbad eyes him.

“I don’t need sleep.”

“Humans need sleep, and you look perpetually exhausted.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“Do not”

“You do.”

“Well so do you!”

“I don’t sleep well! Everything I went through, with Maader, my government, my father, it _all_ haunts me! You can’t tell me you aren’t affected!”

“You know I am Sin! You’ve been there, you didn’t know why I woke up screaming but I did okay?!”

“Ja’far-“

“You started this, you and you’re questions, you saw my past in my head, I am _so sorry_ you didn’t like what you found.” Hit biting sarcasm was back full force and Sinbad almost recoiled from the venom on his tongue.

“I just wanted to know.”

“And now you do, does that help anything?” He bit.

“I guess we’re both messed up,” Sinbad says, laughing humorlessly. “I rely on you a lot, I came here to talk to you, and because I couldn’t sleep. I rely on you for help, and being around you is calming, and maybe, you should rely on me too.”

“I do.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“I’m… tired too.”

“Can I stay?” Ja’far nods, before moving to crawl up the bed, pulling back the sheet and flopping down. Sinbad follows suit, and pulls Ja’far against his chest.

“What’s next?” Ja’far says, curling closer.

“We can figure that out tomorrow.” Sinbad says, dropping a quick kiss to Ja’far’s head. Ja’far fell asleep quickly, Sinbad wasn’t quite as fortunate. He was somewhat glad to not be asleep, as shortly after Ja’far starts stirring, forehead creased and laced with a thin sheen of sweat as he fidgets. Sinbad runs his fingers through his hair, and clears his throat before singing the lullaby his mother used to sing to him. He’d used it in the past, when he’d find Ja’far screaming from the next room, and it seemed to still be just as effective, calming the troubled man. He smiles as Ja’far stills, and slips into unconsciousness himself, the smile still on his lips as he sleeps.

Ja’far woke earlier, having already slept more than he usually did across a span of several days, and slipped out of the bed. He tiptoed around his room, trying not to wake Sin, and dressing himself in proper clothes, taking a brief glance to the mirrors, covered by a tarp and hidden.

He opened the door, cursing the fact that he never oiled it as it squeaked, and left, walking down the hall to the apprenticeship rooms, shaking out his hair, noting that it hung in front of his eyes a bit too much. The halls were quiet, barely a sound resonating from his own footsteps as he walked, and certainly known from anyone else. He peered inside the door, confirming his ideas that no one else was awake.

He kept walking, passing up the work room he spent most of his time in, instead, walking on out of their trading company, and into the streets. There were some stragglers out now, not many, and the sun was barely showing its pale face over the waters. He looked around, taking in the town they’d spent quite a bit of time in, but that he’d never really seen. Ever since they had returned from Imuchakk after the first trading debacle, he had either been holed up in their quarters, or in different lands, on ships and traveling.

He found the paths giving way to sand as he walked, for some reason, though he was thinking of the town, his feet carried him to the shores, where fisherman ambled about and boats floated in the dock. The colors of the sunrise started to fade into bright blue as the sun ascended the sky, and he kept walking along the shore. A man waved at him, and he gave a small wave back, uncomfortable with the acknowledgment. He wasn’t used to being noticed, his life had basically thrived off of being hidden, and when he was noticed, it was never good. It typically meant he had screwed up. He didn’t often mess up, not in a way that caused him to fail, but in enough of a way to get him in trouble at the guild, to get him _disciplined_. There was a reason he was snappy and angry, and a reason he had softened up so quickly under the care of Rurumu and Sin. He wasn’t made for that life, he had hardened to adapt to it, but he wasn’t born a killer.

Ja’far stopped, frowning at the grit in his shoes and the salt he could feel stuck to his face. Offpsray from the nearby sea, and sweat. He hated heat, he didn’t do well in it. Cold, he did well in. Heat, no. He burned too easily, and it was uncomfortable being hot. He turned, prepared to head back, to get to work.

He pulled open the door, stepping in and heading to the closest sink. He threw cold water on his face, trying to remove the combinations of salt. He headed on, going to his workroom. Even after his stroll there weren’t any people about, and he shook his head, wondering how this company was going to stay together. There was a soft smile on his face, knowing that somehow, they would make it. If there worst fear was work ethic, they would be fine.

He tied on an apron before sitting down, taking up a quill and beginning work on the papers that had piled up while he was away. Rurumu was amazing, but she was also a mother with three children, she kept the company together remarkably well, but they did manage to fall behind on some paperwork during that time, especially with the effort consumed by conspiring to rescue Sinbad.

Ja’far sighed. His talk with Sin had made him feel a little bit better, about certain things that had been concerning him. On the other hand, knowing, really _explicitly_ knowing that Sinbad depended on him, that he relied on him, that he _needed_ him, threw a wrench in his idea to leave when things got settled. If Sinbad continued to need him, then how was he supposed to leave? He frowned, eyebrow creased, _why does it matter if he needs me. He can manage alone… He may not want to, but he_ can. _He’s a dungeon capturer, he’s_ Sin _, he can do this. He doesn’t_ need _me._

He rubbed his eyes, trying to banish his thoughts. Work right now, that should be the focus. It hadn’t been very long before footsteps were down the hall, and a knock rapped at the door.

“Hey,” he looked up then, and Sinbad burst out laughing when he did.

“What?” Ja’far asked, rather snapped, grip tightening on the pen in his hand.

“You’ve, uh, got something on your face,” Sinbad says, walking over, grabbing a spare apron off the wall. He walked over chuckling, reaching for the younger’s face and taking hold of his jaw with roughened fingertips, bringing the apron up to wipe the ink of his friend’s face. “See?” Sinbad said, holding up the dirtied apron. “Though I really just smudged it, sorry.” Ja’far laughed, lightly at first, and then building up, and Sinbad joined, raucous laughter filled the small room for several minutes, until the boys were clutching their sides and tears stung their eyes and breath was a foreign concept.

“Ahh, ok. Did you need something Sin? You’re up awfully early for you. Well, up early in general.”

“Not early compared to you.” Sinbad smirked at him, “but yeah. I wanted to talk to you about what we’re going to do next.”

“Next?”

“Yeah. I have to... We have to keep moving forward. You said it yourself right? We have a country to build.”

“Yes.” He gives a gentle shove to Sinbad’s shoulder, “that’s what you promised, remember.”

“Of course.” He gives a small shove back. “Thanks again Ja’far.”

“You can stop saying that.”

“I’ll stop saying it when you believe I mean it.”

“I believe you mean it.”

“Do you?” Ja’far was quiet for a moment, and Sinbad continues. “I promise, if I come into trouble again, I’ll be careful. I didn’t do what I did for lack of faith, just desperation, and I thank you, for all that you did while I was gone.”

“Yeah well,” Ja’far fumbled over his words, continuing to look away from Sinbad. “I just wanted you safe. I thought we were over this?”

“Well, I didn’t feel like I got the point across with you.”

“You should really be making sure you thank Rashid, he didn’t do much himself, but we couldn’t have done it without him.”

“Ah you’re right!” Sinbad snapped upright, his pointer finger in the air, marking his revelation. Ja’far smiles at the enthusiasm, something deep inside him relaxing at the sight of Sin with energy again. Sin runs to the front of the desk, throwing his palms in a splay on the table. “Do you want to go to Balbadd?”

“Huh?” Ja’far meets eyes bright as gold and shimmering like glitter and Ja’far, even if he wanted to, couldn’t say no to him.

“My mentor deservers thanks, for all he’s done,” Sinbad winks and Ja’far slumps forward on elbows.

“Mentor,” he says quietly, before an idea hits, and he looks up through too long bangs at Sinbad. “Yes,” he says, answering Sinbad’s question prior. “Maybe your mentor could give some advice about what to do with your country now.”

“Ja’far you are brilliant.” Sinbad says, pulling Ja’far most of the way onto the table and into a hug.

“Just sensible, not brilliant.”

“You’re brilliant, don’t let anyone and not even yourself tell you otherwise,” before Sin can think, he presses forward, kissing a freckled cheek, and frolicking out of the room, giving an enthusiastic wave and goodbye before disappearing down the hall.

Ja’far remained where he was, perched precariously on the desk before his eyes, with a terrible amount of lag, followed the path Sinbad had made in his exit.

“Damn…” he curses silently before sinking back into his chair. He runs his hands down his face, then more vigorously rubs his eyes before going back to his work, and throughout the day, people who pass by would notice he was working with a small smile on his face, and that smile spread throughout the company like a warm breeze pushing through the cold months, bringing life along with it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here we are. Another chapter down, and I think I have a plan for this again. I’ll see you all in about a week, everyone take care of yourselves and review if you like it.


	6. Someday these flowers will bloom

            The days they spend to and from Balbadd are uneventful. He spends a lot of time on deck, covered by a towel on his head, keeping him from most of the _evil_ rays of the sun. He never liked the sun. Never liked the thing he seemed to have a natural negative disposition to, something he couldn’t change. His weakness, weakness that he couldn’t change. He got dehydrated faster, burned quicker, felt fatigue from it sooner, it was just all around unpleasant, and the knowledge he was weak to it made him frustrated. Unreasonably so.

            He spent his day on the deck, keeping his eyes on the horizon, periodically scanning below deck, trying to keep himself moving as much as possible, give himself purpose, and be as proactive as he possibly could. Night drew to close, and though they were at sea, Ja’far couldn’t shake the weight in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong, that something was coming. The weight that sometimes drifted all the way down to his toes, making him sluggish as he walked, weighing on his mind, his thoughts, and plaguing his dreams. He found himself drifting towards Sinbad’s cabin. If an attack came, if would be one of the two of them the assailant would be after.

            The deck was slightly damp, not enough that you could notice it by touch, but that if you sat down on it would leave your clothes damp. There was a slight weight to the air, humidity holding in the clouds. He reached Sinbad’s door, then scolded himself for being too paranoid, and started walking back to his own room. He didn’t sleep well, but that didn’t mean he needed to stand outside Sinbad’s door the whole time he was awake.

            He hadn’t gotten very far, was still in the vicinity, ears and eyes alert as he always kept them, when he heard shouting, screaming really, from Sinbad’s room. He took off, the toes of his shoes slipping slightly with the force of his momentum. His blades were drawn before his first stride hit the ground.

            He burst through the door, immediately gathering he had misread the initial call, seeing as Sinbad was still in bed, only awake because of Ja’far’s sudden intrusion. Sinbad yelped, scrambling out of bed for his sword, still blinking sleep away as he draws, his movements sharper than his mind seemed to be.

            “What’s going on,” he says, voice lower than usual, his last word cut off with a yawn, as if his body itself could tell there wasn’t _actually_ any danger. Ja’far’s arms fell to his side. The window was closed, there was a faint scent of sweat in the air, the blankets were in disarray, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of half drank liquor on the bedside table, but Sinbad had been breathing hard and his pulse was racing before he had been abruptly woken up.

            Ja’far had been prepared to fight, he could sense the distress through the door, which was part of what had him standing there bewildered at what was going on before the pieces started to fall in his head.

            “You yelled, so I came,” Ja’far said, proceeding to stow away his blades.

            “I did?” Sinbad said, and Ja’far’s gaze locked to his, stare sharp and fueled with enough heat to cut steel, not buying Sinbad’s false pretense of ignorance for a millisecond. Ja’far narrowed his eyes, taking in the haggard appearance of his fiend, exhaustion far beyond what he should feasibly be experiencing at this point.

            “What’s wrong with you?” Ja’far bit, his tone laced with venom and his stance rigid as he finished concealing his weapons. Sinbad sheathed his, his sleepy expression hardening, prepared to defend himself and bracing himself for an argument, _in the middle of the night_.

            “What are you talking about?” Sinbad said, folding his arms over his chest, growing to be a more imposing figure every day, taller and broader, but he didn’t intimidate Ja’far, not a bit.

            “Don’t lie to me.”

            “Because you’re so truthful!”

            “Why the hell does it matter?!”

            “You could get yourself killed running yourself like that! How are you going to fight drinking yourself to sleep and waking up shouting!”

            “Cause you’re such a model of self-care.” Sinbad muttered, dropping the volume a bit. Ja’far’s momentum halted, his face falling before drawing his arms close to himself, receding.

            “You’re an ass.”

            “You know that’s not what I meant,” Sinbad falters, his arms dropping his prior attempts at being imposing, reaching out for Ja’far instead. “You look exhausted, and you and I both know you barely sleep.” His took Ja’far’s hand, pulling it away from his core, from his drawn in position, running another hand down his back, but Ja’far wouldn’t look at him.

            “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He muttered, and then tried to pull away. “You know, I can’t help if you don’t talk to me,” he says, finally looking up to meet concerned amber eyes.

            “It’s just nightmares Ja’far,” he says before going to sit on the bed. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.” Ja’far thought about protesting, but he figured he would probably end up wandering over here anyway to keep watch, and he could watch just as easily from inside the room as he could outside, so he yielded. Crawling under the covers on the other side of the enormous bed. He spent most of the night looking out the window, his mind oddly blank as he watched, no thoughts occurring, but still alert to changes. It did occur to him at some point, that he was had probably acted with less grace, and more volatility than was necessary.

            Just before dawn he let himself drift off a little bit, he thinks he dozed about an hour and a half before he woke back up. Thanking whatever deity above that the small amount of sleep he had wasn’t interrupted by dreams himself.

            The next day, as night time approached, he went ahead and knocked, spending the evening with Sinbad, chatting idly about their trip, about the King’s children, about the future, nothing of real substance. Sinbad drifted off, and Ja’far held his seat in the corner of the room, reading next to a lit candle.

            It hadn’t been two hours before Sinbad was thrashing again, and Ja’far rubbed his tired face before going to wake Sinbad. He was nicer this time, doing it with a little more empathy than his behavior prior. He tried shaking him awake, but it didn’t work, until Sinbad’s hand, almost able to wrap around his bicep twice gripped him and pulled him into the bed. Ja’far tried to get up, but wasn’t getting anywhere with Sinbad’s strength. He wasn’t a slight kid, but he was small, and his strengths lay in evasiveness and using other people’s weight against him, simple muscle was not a noteworthy skill of his.

He yielded eventually, and noticed that Sinbad had gone still, and seemed relatively at peace. He huffed, and then wriggled so that he could still see both the door and the window, intending fully on continuing his duties as watchdog even though his focal point had changed.

This was how he spent most of the trip. They spoke during the day hours, mostly about routes, small talk, not really dwelling on what happened in the evenings, or _why_ Sinbad wasn’t sleeping, though Ja’far had a fairly intuitive guess why. He spent a good amount of time dangling his legs off the edge of the ship, watching the distance, and maintaining his minimal sleeping habits, barley getting two hours a night, between watching and thinking, he couldn’t rest.

Then there were the rare times. When he would take a moment alone, where he would shower. Without fail, in the tiny space of the bathroom, closed in and with his thoughts, the claustrophobia and fear would drive him to panic. He’d find his chest in inexplicably tight, unable to catch his breath, sinking to his knees in the water. He’d cry, hand clasped tightly over his mouth, not letting out the sobs that so desperately tried to pull out of his throat.

            He was too afraid of what could happen, too ashamed of what he’d already let happen, and the short hours he spent asleep were drenched in blood, memories of his time with the organization, and then imaginings of his friends, his new family slaughtered at their hands, until finally it was Sinbad whose body he saw mangled, till he saw Rurumu’s throat slit, her children in pieces, before he was finally killed himself, and he’d wake, tears on his face, both hands over his mouth, not helping his hyperventilating, but keeping him from waking Sinbad. He didn’t need to worry, not about him, he was working through enough shit on his own.

            All of this always rushed into his head when he was alone, overwhelming him, and pushing him to drag his knives across his skin, relishing in the pain as blood flowed down his arm and flowing into the drain. He tore into his biceps, his thighs, places clothing covered. Places no one would see, that no one would say anything about. Somewhere Sin wouldn’t see, that Rurumu wouldn’t know about, that he couldn’t bother anyone, but so he could feel _some_ kind of relief from the panic.

It made him sick, knowing this is what he’d fallen to, that this is what his body was accustomed too. He was so conditioned to pain, it seemed that when he didn’t have any to deal with it threw him into some spiral, that he just couldn’t adapt to the changes his new life gave him, he couldn’t process it all without having some kind of anchor, and he chose pain as that anchor, not knowing any other way, any other method. He’d wait, until the water ran clear to get out, making sure nothing would seep through his clothing, avoiding awkward conversations and barebones explanations for odd wounds.

He could feel things breaking down, could feel his responses getting slower as his brain got more tired, as things wore on. The little sleep he got wasn’t restful, and seemed to barely be enough to function, but he was going to have to get by. He couldn’t spend any more time in that horrible dreamland than was absolutely necessary for him not to kill his body.

Then they were home, having gotten advice from Sinbad’s mentor, and seeming to have something of a plan, heading to the dark continent area, to Heliohapt shortly, after returning home first.

He hasn’t seen Sinbad much since they returned, the other working on more travel preperations, and Ja’far trying to get ahead in work and studies, while simultaneously double checking the small amount done while he was gone. One couldn’t blame him from being a little bit paranoid, a little bit too cautious, trying a little bit too hard to make sure everything is working properly.

           Ja’far’s working on his studies, sheets Rurumu gave him for further practice, and some scrolls he had copied so he could review. After what had happened recently, he felt the need to be particularly diligent, even with Rurumu looking over things, he knew she couldn’t, well, shouldn’t do it forever, she had a family and goals of her own, and he wanted her to be able to have that, to be able to be a parent with Hinahoho and not worry about their company. Hell, now she had taken all the former slave children under her wing as well, teaching them, even the unwilling Masrur when someone could get him sat down in front of her long enough.

To be honest, Ja’far had more luck helping the kid learn, perhaps because one on one worked better for him, maybe because Ja’far understood what it was like to be in his position, to be someone who didn’t understand or value or _care_ about education, who didn’t think there was any purpose, they were only good at one thing, they couldn’t do anything else so why try? His lessons with Masrur were short, and were often started by the younger, but barely shorter, boy looming over Ja’far’s shoulder while he is working with something akin to curiosity and Ja’far explaining, and teaching him, until Masrur became unable to sit down, and he would wander away again for a nap or food or something.

            Ja’far scratched at his upper arm before quickly pulling his hand away, gaining a questioning glance, but no words, from Masrur who sat beside him. He offered no comment, and Masrur didn’t push, they had a predominantly silent relationship, particularly on Masrur’s part, he wasn’t a child of many words, not for lack of knowledge, he just didn’t seem keen on speech. He conveyed enough with looks and mannerisms for Ja’far to keep up, and Ja’far pointed a lot, writing out things and explaining them when Masrur looked puzzled still, and sometimes, they just sat there. Masrur may nap, enjoying the silence of Ja’far’s study area, knowing not a lot of people come and bother the quite frankly frightening former assassin.

His temper had spread through the company quickly, and new employees were warned not to bother him excessively, and to keep messages brief. Ja’far didn’t mean to snap at people, but he was still new, new to work, to relations, to speaking with manners, and when he was stressed, as a child with far too much weight, most of it self placed, on his shoulders it was hard to blame him for pencil snapping or angry responses, quipped answers and snarky, sarcastic remarks.

Today was a day that Masrur seemed to want to be around him for the promise of uninterrupted and relatively silent peace. Ja’far worked, trying hard to get ahead in the couple days before they depart.

“Where are you from?” Masrur’s voice perks up, lower than one would expect from a child, and monotonous, a question but no real interest betrayed by his tone. Ja’far looks at him, wondering what brought up the question.

“I don’t really know.” He admits. He’d contemplated giving his generic answer, Parthevia, though it wasn’t technically true it wasn’t untrue. He didn’t know where he was _from_ per say, didn’t know where he was born, or where his family came from, not the way Hinahoho did or the way Mystras did.

“Hm,” Masrur hummed, and Ja’far put his pen down, figuring this was the start of a conversation.

“Why the interest?”

“Are you going to the dark continent?” Masrur asks, and Ja’far nods.

“Yes, Sinbad thought it would be good to look for land. It was a suggestion from King Rashid.”

“Have you been there?”

“Not far in. I’ve been to the general area, but I haven’t seen much of it. The people there tend to keep to themselves, there was no reason to send me there.”

“That’s where Fanalis are from,” Masrur mumbles.

“But you’ve never been,” Ja’far states, feeling the need to vocalize it for some reason, even though he knew the answer already. Masrur shook his head. “Do you want to go?” Ja’far asks, and Masrur’s head snaps up, his gaze meeting Ja’far’s green eyes.

“Do you think there are Fanalis there?” He asks. Ja’far looks down. He couldn’t be sure of course, but he knew the answer wasn’t something Masrur was going to want to hear.

“I don’t, not really. Not many anyway. I looked into it after Sinbad fought you, and from what I found, I think most Fanalis are in captivity or slavery. I’m sorry Masrur.”

“I see.

“Do you still want to see it?” Ja’far asks, trying to dwell on the thing Masrur _could_ see rather than what he probably wouldn’t.

“I don’t know. If there’s no one there,” he trails off and Ja’far sighs.

“I could be wrong, and maybe you’ll find something, but it’s up to you.” He hates himself for having to tell him that, for inadvertently telling him there’s a chance there are Fanalis there. He just didn’t have it in him to crush the kid’s hopes. The look in his eyes when Ja’far had asked if he wanted to go was so pure, so excited, it was devastating to have to tell him the truth.

“I’ll… think about it.” Masrur says. “I’m hungry,” he announces, standing up and patting Ja’far on the top of the head before walking away. Ja’far shook his head, realizing how late it had gotten. He should probably go talk to Sinbad, and he wanted to do some training today. Well, at least he can reasonably say he was too busy to sleep without lying.

 

            Masrur had just left and Ja’far was walking down the hall with a scroll in hand when Rurumu stopped him.

            “How was Balbadd Ja’far?” She asks gently, Kikiriku tugging gently at her hand, pulling her to no avail.

            “It was fine, King Rashis was hospitable, though his sons were not, and it was hot.” Kikiriku drifted over to Ja’far’s side, pulling at his hand instead, “just a moment Kikiriku I’m talking to you mother,” he chastised gently, though a smile fell on his face, betraying his fondness for his somewhat brother.

            “I think he wants to play with you,” Rurumu says. “I’m glad Balbadd went well, Sinbad told me a few of you will be heading to the dark continent area?”

            “Yes, that was King Rashid’s suggestion for finding land for Sin’s country. Said it was probably our best chance, so Sin jumped on it. Is Hina coming? I haven’t gotten to talk to Sin about it yet.”

            “Yes, Mystras as well. How’s Masrur? He eluded lessons again.”

            “He’s, he was with me this morning.”

            “Seems to have taken a liking to you,” she smiles again, happy to see Ja’far’s nature had drawn another person to him. He wasn’t the kind that would seek out companionship, but as much as his upbringing contradicted it, he had a compassionate and caring disposition, and it did him well to have people around him, have people who cared about him and that he could care about. He needed that, after a childhood of depravity, to be surrounded by care and warmth, and she was happy. Happy to see him thriving so well.

            “I suppose,” Ja’far mumbles, and Rurumu steps forward, taking the scrolls from his hands.

            “I’ll file these away, why don’t you two go play for awhile, I’m sure you need a break Ja’far,” she suggests, and Ja’far knows better than to argue with her.

            “Yes ma’am,” he offers as she walks away, blowing his bangs out from in front of his face, noting that they could really use trimming, and that his hair in general was becoming to shaggy for his liking. “What do you want to do Kikiriku?” He asks the rapidly growing toddler whose loose grasp is still on his hand. The kid is as tall as he is now, and ja’far can’t help but grimace at that. He’s Imuchakk, but still, Masrur is younger than him and almost as tall. Drakon of course towers over him, he wonders if its his fate to be the smallest around here.

He scoffs internally, berating himself for having already forgotten his plan. He wouldn’t be here much longer. The thought saddened him, and Kikirku squeezed his hand, his cherubic gaze fixated on Ja’far, though he knew the child had no way of knowing what he was thinking, it still stirred up nerves in him, that maybe he wasn’t as good at keeping things as he thought he was. That he would get trapped. He had no intentions of proper goodbyes when the time came, nothing good came from them, he fully intended to disappear. Well, not fully. He’d have to draw attention to himself, get the organization to catch his trail, or face them flat out, offer them something in hops of getting them to leave Mahad and Vittel be. They weren’t really anything special skill wise, maybe he could get them to let the desertion pass… Somehow… He frowned again, knowing he was more likely to get what he needed if he slaughtered the whole organization, so there _wasn’t_ anyone to come after them.

“Hey Masrur, do you wanna come out with us?” Ja’far calls, peering into the kitchen where the Fanalis boy sat, his legs dangling out of a chair much to big for him, and a hunk of meat half in and half out of his mouth. Masrur looks between the two, before nodding, tearing off the meat and swallowing what he had before hopping down to join them.

They ended up at the beach, down the way a small bit from the docks, where they could splash in the sand, and Masrur and Kikiriku tried to chase fish, and every now and then someone would wave down the shore at them, and Ja’far would respond politely. He got dragged to the water by Kikiriku, somewhat literally, to engage in a splash fight, and it was the most fun he had had in, well ever. Masrur and Kikiriku did some play wrestling, abnormal toughness versus abnormal strength, and Ja’far did some light sparring with Masrur, and built sand slop with Kikiriku. If he wanted to be completely honest, this was probably more exhausting than desk work, but he was grateful for the few hours of freedom he’d had.

“You smell like blood,” Masrur pipes up suddenly and Ja’far’s head snaps up in inhuman speed, his neck popping with the exertion. Blank red eyes watch him, a small tilt to his head as he waits for a response, and Kikiriku looks confused, caught mid splash, crouched with his hands in the water.

“Must have stepped on a seashell,” Ja’far covers, realizing that indeed, one of his wounds on his leg is seeping blood into the water below. There’s no way to tell where its coming from considering he’s waist deep in water, so his fib _could_ pass, and he’s hoping Masrur will leave it alone. Masrur doesn’t break eye contact, narrowing his gaze almost imperceptibly before splashing Kikiriku, sending the toddler sputtering at the suddenness of it and Ja’far laughs, both from humor and from relief.

It’s almost dark before they head back, Kikiriku on Ja’far’s back, dozing off, and Masrur at his side. It’s a bit chilly now, considering they are all wet and didn’t bring towels. Ja’far scolds himself for not having prepared well enough, and hopes neither of them catch a cold because of it.

As soon as they reach the company, Masrur runs off inside, Ja’far shrugs it off, figuring he was going to get dry, or finish the remainder of the lunch he had disrupted. He continues his soggy trek to Rurumu’s room, intending to get her son into something warm, and then try and coax him into some dinner before sleep. He knocks first, and her gentle voice beckons him in, stirring Kikiriku on his back as well.

“We’re back,” he says, pulling the door closed behind him. “Got a little bit wet though,” he admits, a shameful smile on his face, wishing he wasn’t returning her child cold and damp but she just laughs, a hand moving to cover her face as the chuckles continue.

“I can see that, come on,” she picks up her son, and drapes a blanket over Ja’far before turning to fetch dry clothes. “Did you have fun?” She calls over, before reemerging in record time with a freshly dressed Kikiriku.

“I did, Masrur came with us too.” He mentioned.

“That’s very good, I’m sure he needed that. Oh, what happened to your leg there?” Ja’far looks down, his chest seizing up at the mention of it, and sees where the recently opened wound had bled through the sand colored trousers he wore. _Fuck_. He doesn’t have a chance to respond before she’s rolling up the end of his cut offs to inspect the wound, and a deep set frown falls into place on her fair face as more healing cuts reveal themselves with each inch she reveals, until she reaches the one currently bleeding, seeing they continue further beyond the traitorous one, beyond his mid thigh. She puts her hands on her knees, looking at the wounds meticulously lined and the crisscrossed through contemplatively. She goes to speak, but he throws off the blanket and runs, out the door with it swinging shut behind him before the can finish calling his name.

He’s in the street of town, pants still rolled up and clothes still damp, scaling a building to its rooftop before he even begins to process what just happened. He sits at the edge of the room, pulling his knees to his chest and letting some of his despair out, despite his apparent vulnerability. His arms are numb, and his legs are heavy, his head is swimming and he’s feeling every minute of sleep he’s lost in the past weeks crashing down on him.

The thing that wouldn’t stop flicking behind his eyelids, was the pain and confusion on the kind face of the mother that had chosen to take him in, to help him, and care for him. That had entrusted the safety of her child to on a number of occasions, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that changing because of his stupid choices, he couldn’t face her right now. He just couldn’t…

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. I’m sorry it took so long, I tried to make it a little bit longer of an update, and I promise the plot is going somewhere, eventually, I just never can do things quickly and I feel like there is a lot of importance in setting and development and I’m still trying to work through the direction this is going, but I’m working on it.   
> Thanks everyone for the support and the comments, I always read them, though sometimes it takes me a little bit (comments give me a little bit of anxiety after I worked really hard on a fic when I was like fourteen and got a scathing comment about my characterization and such and so comments come with a tiny bit of anxiety, but I love them and they make me happy to see that you guys are enjoying the fic and such. So yeah)  
> Um, yeah. If you wanna pop in and say hi, or bug me, my tumblr is asthmaticglader (TMR fan haha) so there’s that. Have a good day everybody, hope you all had a decent January.   
> Cassie (Asthmaticglader formerly lifehousefanatic2011)


	7. And they'll float down to you

           

He didn’t know what he was doing. For someone that had prided himself on making rational, quick choices in the past, he was doing exactly the opposite now: fleeing with no plan. No idea. No direction. Just bare feet on uneven rock. He had fled the roof moments after having settled, his body wound too tight and heart pounding too fast to stay still long.

His toes caught the edges of stone painfully, his eyes bleary as he ran, leading him to clumsy encounters with walls and near falls scraping his palms. But he couldn’t stop, the panic wouldn’t let him. His mind was blissfully clear as he ran, filled with nothing but the rushing of his pulse and the soft thud of his body against floor or building periodically. He couldn’t focus, and that should scare him. He was panicked, and that should scare him. But all that seemed to be affecting him, was the look on Rurumu’s face, and that seemed to be precisely what he was running from.

Running from her, running from Sin, from the promise he broke. Every time he faltered he felt better, the ache settling into his bones as he picked himself up off rough edges. The pain pulling him back to reality. He began to realize he must look dreadful, likely bruised and frightened, and he could feel the wetness on his cheeks, could begin to understand the wheezing wasn’t the wind, but his lungs protesting the distance he’d been running while gasping for air over sobs, snot drying on his lip that he wiped furiously with his arm as he finally, finally slowed.

He realized he was well out of the main city at this point, on down the worn travel road as he halted altogether. His legs buckled underneath him and he fell gracelessly to his knees, palms catching the weight of his torso as he heaved, his stomach retching, sweat dripping into the dirt below him. He hadn’t realized when the ground had turned from stone to dirt, but there it was, it’s slight give beneath his limbs and dusty presence right there.

He spit on the ground when his stomach calmed, trying to purge his mouth of the taste of what could only be his stomach lining. He pushed back into a kneeling position and his stomach muscles protested. He looked to the sky, seeing it in all its beautiful seaside clarity, stars hanging brightly in the dark expanse of space, the moon in its waning crescent showing him it was well into the early am hours.

He was starting to regain his sense, looking down he saw his assumptions while he had been running were correct, he was well bruised, the color already standing out vibrantly on his pale skin. He shook his head, more sweat droplets soiling the dirt around him and he pulled his legs out from under him to stretch out in front. He grimaced when he saw the state of his legs. His feet were bleeding, several of his toes developing blackened bruises, his ankles cut up and his knees bruised. That’s not even considering the ones he inflicted himself, the criss-crossing in various stages of healing alone his upper calves and thighs.

He could feel the burning of them now, where they had been pulled by his trousers as he ran. The ache of the bruises and the burn of the cuts was comforting though. As if it were punishment in and of itself for the expression he’d seen on Rurumu’s face before he fled. Like this was penance for hurting her. For breaking his promise to Sin that he would try not to do this anymore, because he didn’t try that hard. He only tried to not let Sin see it was still happening.

He didn’t want to fight with anyone about this. He didn’t know why they cared. Why it mattered if he had another scar or ten. Why it mattered where they came from, or from whose hand. His body was already littered with so many he couldn’t remember individually how each one happened, not like Sin. He couldn’t look at one and say, ‘that’s where I got a fishhook stuck in my shoulder when I was 10,’ or ‘that’s when my knife slipped while I was cutting up a fruit and stabbed my finger.’ Half the time when he was being hurt, they kept hurting him long after he lost consciousness.

He was already disgusting, why not make it worse if it made him feel a little bit better. He couldn’t forgive himself for mistakes, mistakes were punished, then you could talk about making it up, about proving you were better than that now. That you were smarter, faster, better. That you were worth sparing. That you weren’t a liability yet. That you were still valuable.

His thoughts were running different directions, incoherent in their variability as they flitted around his skull. He suddenly felt the need to draw new lines, to cut new wounds, to punish himself for hurting Rurumu. A part of him new it was counter-productive, as the wounds themselves upset her, how would making more fix anything. But the other part of him, cried out for it. Craved it, demanded it. His skin practically sung for the sting of a blade.

He felt like screaming, crying, running and sleeping all at once and it was horrible. He couldn’t sort it out and he just wanted it to stop. He wanted to go back, and never return at the same time. He wanted to talk to Rurumu, to explain, and also to never look her in the eye again. He wanted Sin, wanted the comfort and safety that exuded from his friend, that spread out and enveloped anyone he was near. But that was selfish. His presence hurt these people, both from his behavior and the possible consequences of his previous affiliations. They weren’t safe because of who he was, and they were hurt because of who he is.

How could he go back?

* * *

 

Sinbad was rubbing at his eyes after dinner. His brain was thoroughly fried, having spend most of the evening trying to brainstorm plans for the future, both for the excursion and for the company they leave behind. After the debacle he still couldn’t quite shake, it was hard to imagine leaving the place again, but even harder to imagine not leaving.

He had his hand reaching for his door handle when he stopped, and walked on to Ja’far’s room instead. He knocked once before pulling the handle and peering in.

“Ja’far?” He called, stepping in, and realizing he was facing a immaculate, and empty, room. He frowned. Ja’far hadn’t been at dinner, and he wasn’t in his room.

He continued on, spotted Masrur looking weary as he went on. Sinbad’s feet led him to Rurumu’s room, his mind not consciously making the decision, but following instinct.

He heard urgent but hushed tones before he’d had a chance to grasp the golden handle. It twisted before he had a chance to take it, and he was faced with the large bare chest of the friend who had excused himself from dinner shortly before Sinbad had left himself. Hinahoho’s eyes were creased with worry, and his brows were downturned, and Rurumu was behind him, a similar expression on her delicated features.

“What’s wrong?” Sinbad asked immediately, the buzz of the wine with dinner felt like it was being burned out of his veins as his mind prepared for what he was about to hear. The two Imuchakk glanced at each other before Rurumu overtook her husband and knelt before Sinbad, hands folded atop her knee. Hinahoho placed a hand on her shoulder, giving her support and strength, though Sinbad knew she didn’t need it, Rurumu was plenty strong on her own, but the reassurance conveyed through the simple touch sent something warm through his chest, though that warmth was quickly chased away by icy tendrils thickening the blood in his veins when she spoke.

“Ja’far’s gone.”

It was like the world sped up and slowed down at the same time. He had tunnel vision, and couldn’t see beyond the curls that framed her face, the rest of the room and background fading to a blur of colors as stars danced in front of his vision when he realized he hadn’t taken a breath in far too long a time. His lungs burned when he finally gave them the air they craved, and he could feel the tingles in his fingers and toes where his body had begun to panic.

He shook his head, his messy fringe dancing in front of his eyes as he tried to understand her words.

“What do you mean he’s gone?” He asked, his voice deeper and harder than he had ever spoken in her presence.

“He came back from taking the kids to the beach, and he was bleeding…” she paused, uncertain in a way Sinbad had never seen her, before she gathered herself and continued. “He’s been hurting himself, and when I saw, he ran, and I haven’t been able to find him. I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“He was…” Sinbad ran a hand over his face. He felt sick. “I thought he stopped.” He conceded, head hanging in defeat. Gentle fingers touched under his chin, pulling his gaze up to meet gentle ones, warm like flowing gold, and still laced with concern. Everyone talked about how likable Sinbad was, and how he could bend people to his will, how he was a wonder, and special, but _Solomon_ was Ja’far a magnet.

His surprising gentleness, and unwavering compassion and loyalty, drew people to him. Even Masrur, who hadn’t warmed up to anyone in the whole time he’d been with the children under Maader warmed up to Ja’far, looked to him and talked to him. He had this warmth about him, even when he tried his damnedest to be cold, even when he was a full blooded assassin, he exuded this charm, and sometimes Sinbad couldn’t tell if he had been fighting his warm nature while an assassin, or if he was a sociopath playing them all for fools with a good natured façade.

Then this side, this vulnerable, pained, damaged side would come through, and Sinbad could see him more clearly than ever, the frightened child he had met pulling Ja’far from falling, the one that was tormented and abused, that was plagued by nightmares and warped into thinking if he wasn’t perfect he was useless. He could see how much his kindness had worked against him, how much his trust had hurt him, how much his soul had suffered.

Sinbad still ached to hurt those that had so deeply damaged someone so pure. He almost wanted to scoff, calling the boy who had tried to kill him _pure_ , but it felt right. He felt like, despite what Ja’far did, or thought, or said, there was this underlying purity to him. Something that he refused to let be tainted, that let him be the kid that played with Kikiriku and worked himself up over Sinbad’s recklessness, and made him want to help Masrur feel like a child while could.

Sinbad ached to protect that part of him.

He needed to bring the idiot home.

Ja’far was miles outside of the city. He’d gone off to the west after he’d fallen to his knees in the road. He was a good distance from the road now, close enough to be able to overhear traffic that crossed it, but far enough away that there was no way he’d be seen or heard by travelers.

He had napped briefly in a tree, and woken to tear tracked, crusty eyes and sun in his eyes. He could feel the tightness in his skin, knew he was getting burned, but he couldn’t care. For a long while he did nothing, he watched birds and clouds alike flit by in the sky, and wondered what it must be like, to be a cloud. To not care, to not be hunted, to not feel. To travel the sky on the wings of the wind. He shook his head, hopped from the tree and went looking for water.

His feet ached, his wounds itched, his skin was hot, but he kept going. Kept walking. He overheard many conversations, about trade and forming alliances, about evils brewing in the east, about dark energies rising. Conspiracies mostly, fearful thinking. Nothing of true substance.

He heard people gossiping about the dungeon capturer, the young lad, people arguing about how many dungeons he had, how many djins he had won over.

As the sun fell, he used his knives to find food, and to skin it. He took care in his task, watching as the pelt severed from the muscle, as it pulled away, leaving bare meat beneath.

He wonders what it would like to be flayed, to be pulled to your basic being, if it would feel more comfortable to be outside the skin that so often crawled around him and itched in a way he couldn’t soothe.

He felt like a madman.

 

* * *

 

Sinbad had scoured company, had asked everyone who had the misfortune of coming across him if they’d seen Ja’far, when last, where was he going.

The longer he asked the more unsatisfied he was. He didn’t know why asking people was his first thought for how to find someone who’s gift was getting past people. Most of them answered with days ago, or they hadn’t seen him since he got back, and they didn’t know where he was going.

He grew agitated, and snappy.

Eventually Drakon forced him down for sleep.

 

* * *

 

He’d been away two days now. Had left in the evening, and was now on the second full day away. He figured he was fifteen miles from the city. His feet were bloodied, the callouses that had been well formed before he joined Sin had softened in his time at the company, leaving the bared flesh vulnerable. He grit his teeth against the conflicting pains, finding them irritating, but at the same time comforting.

He should feel pain.

It feels right. The comfort he had fallen into, that wasn’t for him. He was a plague, he didn’t deserve comfort. All he did was get the people around him killed, his parents, his comrades, his subordinates, and now he was hunted. He had a target on him, and one that had people behind the arrows who didn’t care if collateral came down with him.

He couldn’t blame it all on the organization though. He could blame some of it on them, but part of the pain he’d caused was his own fault. The hurt he’d put on the woman who had welcomed him into her arms and her family, the pain he’d seen in those golden eyes when the words he’d spoken showed how much of the organization was still ingrained in Ja’far despite what Sinbad had done for him.

That was on him.

He kept moving forward. Though he was tired, and dirty, and bloody. He kept moving forward.

He didn’t know what he was doing, or if he was going back, but right now, he was moving forward.

It was nearing dusk when he heard more people, these ones discussing something about an eastern country, and something that was changing fast in it. Ja’far frowned, but he was too far to hear many details, and the men were speaking lowly, but he picked out enough choice words. He heard something about a Hakutoku, and he scoured his mind, eventually remembering him to be in charge of the country of Kou. The words “unification” and “empress” faded with them.

Ja’far thought about trailing them, but decided not to. Kou wasn’t their problem. It was a small country, and interlocked with other bordering countries, as he understood it, they were as of now in a strained peace, and not one that was well received either, but that was there nonetheless.

He found another seaside town before dark, and he slipped to the beaches silently, washing himself up, wincing as the salt burned his wounded body, but figured if he were going to be seen _at all_ he should at least be relatively clean.

He didn’t end up actually entering the town. He climbed another tree and took his few hours respite there, eyes and ears open despite his unconsciousness. Always waiting for the peace to burn.

Knowing it wasn’t an if, but a when.

* * *

 

Sinbad was practically tied down to the table for breakfast before Drakon would deign to let him out. The two of them scoured the city together, asking every sleazy merchant and innocent passerby if they’d seen the young white haired boy.

Sinbad found, when one person had recounted seeing a boy he thought was maybe eight, with stark white hair, and a bloodied leg, that he was more worried than relieved. If Ja’far had been careless enough to be seen, he must have been truly upset when he left. Would he come back? How far behind him was Sinbad at this point? Would he ever catch up to someone who could disappear like a shadow?

The man said he had been cleaning up his wares when the boy had come flying down the way, stopping briefly when he had collided with a wall, had a feral frightened look in his eyes that had made the man leave some of his supplies out for the night for fear of whatever the boy was running from. Sinbad’s brows drew closer as the man went on, the longer he went on the tighter Sinbad’s posture drew until he was practically rigid.

It hadn’t been a long story by any account but it had been long enough, and it had left a deep seated panic in Sinbad’s gut as the quickly thanked the man and turned on his heel, heading who knows where, until he realized he was on the path out of the city. He could feel the tug of his being pulling him that way, the same way it pulled him when he was fighting, urging him one way or the other, guiding him the right direction, leading him down his path.

Did this path lead to Ja’far? Was that what he was being pulled to? _Who_ he was being pulled to?

Sinbad bit his lip, and as much as he wanted to follow the flow out of the city, he pulled back, and went to the company. He couldn’t just leave, not like that. He couldn’t. Especially not while they were already missing Ja’far.

He would need help, and he would need supplies, and he would need to talk to Rurumu. He needed a plan, he needed to know the company would be okay, because who knew how long this road could pull him. He couldn’t leave them without himself _and_ without Ja’far.

He grit his teeth on the way back, knowing that despite the fact this was a _good_ choice, and that this was _responsible_ , that the longer he waited, and the longer it took him to leave, the farther Ja’far was getting from him.

Echoes of past conversations rang in his ears, worried words spoken through hushed lips about how traitors weren’t left along, how he was a danger to everyone while he was there, and Sinbad’s heart felt too big for his chest, or maybe his chest too small for his heart, he didn’t know which, but he knew it was painful, thinking about Ja’far out there alone, while he was potentially in danger. While he at least believed himself to be in danger.

He knew Ja’far barely slept while he was here and Sinbad was breathing down his neck about it, that he barely ate and didn’t care for himself nearly enough, and Sinbad couldn’t help but worry about how well he was taking care of himself now, while he was distraught and alone, and if he was taking care of himself at all.

He wondered what state he would find him in, if he would be hurt, if he would be ok, if he would find him at all…

He tried not to dwell on the last part, even if that meant dwelling on other un-pleasantries instead, if only to keep his mind busy. Thought about what he would do when he got him back, because he had to get him back, there was no other option, he needed Ja’far, Masrur needed Ja’far, Kikiriku needed his brother, Rurumu and Hina needed their son, the company needed him… He couldn’t lose him, not like this, and _definitely_ not to _them_.

 

* * *

 

His limbs were stiff when he woke and his mouth was dry. He stretched his neck from side to side, wincing slightly when it popped loudly before letting himself fall gracefully to the ground, barely noticing the way the scattered rocks dug into his already abused feet.

It was still a couple hours before dawn when he decide to slip into the town, taking in his surroundings. It was a far cry shorter than what he had grown accustomed to, much more a village outcropping than it was a town, and there were some people already milling about, fisherman preparing to trek to the water and make upon their day, people setting up shop and laying out fresh vegetables and other wares as he passed through. He wouldn’t stay long, he was only trying to seek a basic knowledge of the layout and resources here, nothing else.

He knew he was a sight, bruised and worn and sun burned, but no one seemed to pay him much attention. He wondered if it was common to see people in his state wander through here. His eyes widened when he saw something carved into an upper corner of a building. His heart raced in his chest and his hands twitched in the direction of his weapons, desperately wanting their weight in his palms, but not wishing to draw attention to his arms while he was going unnoticed.

He quickly made his way to the rooftop, hanging his upper body over the ledge, the uneven bricking digging painfully into his abdomen as he tried to get himself in a position where he could see the symbol, even if he was looking at it upside down.

When he was able to see it his vision swam and his stomach lurched in a way that had nothing to do with the pain he felt.

There was no doubt in his mind, no possible way he was misconstruing this, he knew.

He knew he was fucked.

The thing he couldn’t understand was why. _Why?_ Why here, this was days from where they were. Unless.. Had they crossed paths? Where they on their way to the company _now_? Was this a random guess? He heaved his way fully back onto the rooftop, the sun starting to creep out from beneath the horizon just like his past was trying to creep into his present.

He flung his arm over his eyes and lay there a moment, unable to do anything else as his mind raced through possibilities, through potential plans, through options, through consequences of each, analyzing what he could do. Should he go back? Would they bore more likely to leave the company alone and continue their search for him if they didn’t find him there? Or would they simply slaughter everyone hoping to draw them out.

If he went back, could he persuade them to just take him, and leave the others in peace? Or would they end up in a bloody battle. Could he even get Sinbad to stand down and let him go, or would the man start a fight despite Ja’far’s efforts? His head pounded, and bright lights flashed beneath his eyelids, a dull throbbing plagued his temples and he groaned.

He was sleep deprived and dehydrated, and he was panicking. Since when did he panic? This wasn’t something he would have done before he met Sinbad. Even if his life was on the line, hell there were plenty of times when he was _within_ the organization that his life was threatened, and it was met with snarky wit and anger if anything, not this paralyzing fear.

Things were so much simpler when the only one he could get hurt was himself, when the only one he had to really worry about getting killed was himself, when the only one his actions reflected on was himself.

Now he had friends, family that were at risk because of him, who could be hurt because of what he decided to do next, who could be saved because of what he decided to do next, but he didn’t know what to _do_ next, he didn’t know what the right choice was, there were too many god damn variables.

He pulled his knife and thrust it into the pebbled roof, satisfied with the clang the blade made as it collided with the rocks. He drew the other one and carved new paths down the expanse of his forearm, the pain slowly ebbed the headache that had been forming, and grounded him to it. Made him focus on it. The crimson liquid pooled beneath him on the rooftop, sliding down his pale skin to drip and fall in the morning rays of light.

He sighed, and stood, traversing the rooftops until he leapt straight into a tree, grasping its branches and letting himself nimbly to the ground before taking off at a sprint, back the way he came, not bothering to avoid the road this time.

He’d try and catch up to them, though he had no idea when that symbol had been carved, only that it had been done recently. The bricking was soft, and weathering hadn’t had time to erode away the cruel etching, hadn’t been there long enough to hide the scratchings that ebbed around the symbol from errant marks. They had been there recently.

There was only open road between the town he had stumbled upon and the city the company was in, and he didn’t know how long it would take the organization to peal through the city to find them, if they didn’t already know where to look.

A thought occurred to him, that perhaps they had already been there, and they had made the stop to the new town when Ja’far had been absent from the company. He shook his head, sweat dripping to the ground from his efforts, regardless, there was a chance they were still headed this way. If he got to the town and couldn’t find a trace of the organization he could return to the town he knew they’d been in, and track them in earnest.

Until he caught them, or they caught him. He couldn’t gamble with his family’s safety though, he couldn’t let them be out there, exist in the same time that his family did, because they would always be a risk, a threat, and one that he would get rid of, or at least he would kill as many of those pieces of filth as he could before he went down himself. He’d use those skills they gave him, and turn the blade they’d forged against their own necks.

* * *

 

“Someone saw him,” Sinbad announces, sparing pleasantries as soon as had seen Drakon. Drakon shook his head, arms crossed in front of him.

“I was unable to find anyone who could help. What did they say to you Sinbad?”

“He said he saw him running through the street like a crazed person, scared the man into leaving without packing all his stuff and he hid.”

“That is not a lot to go on.”

“It’s plenty for me. He’s scared and he’s being sloppy. I’ve got a feeling about where to go, but I need to tell Rurumu I’m leaving.”

“You are not going alone Sinbad,” Drakon says before Sinbad has even fully turned around. “I will aid you.” Sinbad thinks about arguing, but decides against it. The more eyes the better, the faster they can find their wayward friend. The sooner they can bring him home. He nods once before briskly making his way down the hall to tell Rurumu what they are doing.

He sees Masrur as he’s going, the kid has a mouthful of food and Sinbad had planned to keep walking past him when he feels a tug at his shirt, and looks down to meet the red eyes of the fanalis.

“I’m in a hurry Masrur,” Sinbad says, trying to pull away but the boy’s grip only tightens on the garment and he swallows deliberately.

“Where’s Ja’far?” He asks, and Sinbad feels his muscles tense. Then he lets out a long sigh. Should he say the truth, a lie, somewhere in-between? Masrur had been through a lot, but he was still just a kid, and he knew Ja’far would want him to be playing and not worried, especially not about him, but did that matter to Sinbad? What Ja’far would want? He groaned internally, yes it mattered to him. But Sinbad thought the kid should have a choice, should be able to know.

“He’s gone. We’re looking for him.”

“Did someone take him?”

“No, he-he left.” Sinbad faltered getting that sentence out. It was still hard for him to think, that Ja’far had voluntarily left, that he had _chosen_ to stay away, even beyond just being overwhelmed by Rurumu seeing something he was ashamed of, he hadn’t come back. Sinbad was afraid he didn’t plan on coming back, didn’t know if he would even if they found him.

“Why?”

“He was hurt.”

“He smelled like blood,” Masrur said, releasing Sinbad’s shirt as his gaze fell away.

“What?”

“He smelled like blood. On the beach.” Sinbad’s mouth tightened and his ears felt hot. How could he have not noticed Ja’far was still hurting himself. He let his feet carry him until Masrur called out to him again. “Are you going to look for him?” The boy’s voice carried down the hall.

“Yes.” Masrur runs to be by his side.

“Let me come.” It’s not a question, and Sinbad wouldn’t have told him no anyway. Ja’far may kick his ass if they ever find the little shit, but honestly, Sinbad would welcome it if only for the fact that it would mean Ja’far was ok.

 

* * *

 

Ja’far heaves, his stomach convulsing as he spits the acid to the ground. It burns his throat and it tastes like his insides are trying to escape through his throat. He knows he hasn’t eaten much, and whatever he has eaten is on the ground in front of him. His abdomen hurts, his eyes burn from the sweat dripping into them and he feels like there is a layer of salt laid thick across his skin. He’d doubled back a considerable distance, and he’d pushed himself far harder than was necessary, or was wise.

He slumped, shoulder sliding against the bark as his muscles quaked. God he was stupid. How was he supposed to do anything with his limbs weak and rubbery like this, with his stomach rebelling and his breath ragged, what happened to pacing himself, to his training? His panic over his family’s safety had thrown everything out the window, he was smarter than this, he _knew_ he was.

He dragged the tip of his weapon down his arm. Drawing blood to the surface. Letting it bead and pool before sliding to the other side of his pale arm. It felt like scratching an itch that had burrowed its way beneath his skin, that had been nesting in his worries and self doubt and was finally getting a chance to be set free.

In a strange way, it felt like some of the filth that he was left him as the blood fell to the ground, as the pain radiated through him.

He tired of watching the wound bleed, and knew he needed to get moving again, he needed to close the distance between him and them, maybe even catch up. His head felt light, and his vision dark as he tore a strip of cloth free from his trousers and wound it around his newest wound. He wondered absently If there was a limit to what he would do to himself, if eventually he would go too far, if that was even possible.

He felt like there was some string in his mind that held him up, that kept him near the edge but also away from falling off of it. If there were a multitiude of strings pulling him _towards_ the edge of this proverbial cliff, there was one that fought against them and he was pulling it apart strand by strand. He felt like once he got rid of the threat over his family’s heads, once he knew they were safe, the thread would disintegrate altogether, and he didn’t know what would be left with after that.

He didn’t know if he cared.

He chased his thread.

 

* * *

 

Sinbad was worried. He, Drakon and Masrur had been out for hours. Sinbad had given a brief chat to Rurumu about what he had found out, and what he was planning on doing at this point, and that Drakon and Masrur had deigned it a task worth joining him on.

She had gripped his shoulders tight, her eyes sparkling in the morning light, and told him to bring their friend home before crushing him in a hug. Pipirika had given him a small smile and Mystras had nodded at him from behind her, his face grim. He hadn’t seen anyone else as he had raided supplies and thrown items in bags, including fresh clothes for Ja’far.

All he could cling to was that his friend was okay, and that he would come back _when_ they found him. They had to find him.

They were out the gates by early afternoon, barely past high noon. Sinbad had headed down the road automatically, before Masrur had turned to the left and strayed.

“Hey, hey! Where are you going?” Sinbad called, breaking away from his idle chatter with Drakon.

“He didn’t go that way,” Masrur says, kneeling to the ground.

“You can track him?” Drakon says from behind both of them and Sinbad looks at him wide eyed.

“No. I can smell him.” Sinbad frowned at that.

“Ja’far doesn’t smell,” Sinbad said contemplatively.

“Not normally, I smell blood.” Masrur says, plucking a blade of grass stained crimson. It wasn’t a large amount, but the sight of it made his stomach flip. Sinbad had been beaten to a pulp, had seen scarred and mangled men as a small child, but somehow knowing this blood was from a frightened and distressed friend fleeing in the middle of the night made him hurt a way he hadn’t known before.

“We proceed this way then,” Drakon said, taking the lead when he found Sinbad was at a loss for words. Sinbad’s mouth quirked slightly, a silent thanks to his friend. Somehow they had formed a connection that allowed them to communicate pretty well without saying much or anything at all. It wasn’t as potent as the one he’d formed with Ja’far, but he felt like part of that was due to the nature of Ja’far’s skillset that made his so perceptive.

Sinbad stood stiffly, his legs not quite solid beneath him as they treaded forward.

 

* * *

 

 

He slowed, and his pain slowly reduced to a rough throb, something bearable, something he could operate with. He pressed on, at a brisk pace, but not one that would put him back in the state he had just finished recovering from. It was dusk when he heard someone else on the trail, and he quickly pulled himself up into a tree, dirty fingers scrabbling at uneven bark, his toes finding uneven purchase as he knelt along a strong branch. He opened his ears, listening. He found the voices were in front of him, and he moved through the trees in that direction.

As the voices became clear enough to hear he frightened a bird that had quickly fled from its home, and was summarily cut to the ground by the people below. Ja’far bit back a curse.

“Was that really necessary?”

“Does it matter?”

“It was a bird.”

“It was annoying.”

“Both of you shut up.”

“You’re just mad we haven’t found them yet.”

“You better sleep while you can. You aren’t going to get out of this without being one hundred percent.”

“He’s not that strong.”

Ja’far put his hand in his mouth to hold back a snort. Ja’far couldn’t see them, but he was certain he could bury whoever was speaking. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but not anything he could specifically place. He had been arrogant when he was in the organization, and he hadn’t wanted to look at these people. Whether they were people who enjoyed this, or who were like him. Who were just burying how much it hurt to be the _thing_ that he was. He didn’t care either way. He didn’t want to see how broken or fucked they were.

But he knew he had been good at what he did. He knew, especially if they didn’t have surprise on their side, he would be ok. He could take it.

* * *

 

Sinbad was getting antsy, and he was starting to drive Drakon crazy. They had followed what they believed to be Ja’far’s trail the all afternoon, and had continued straight from where the trail had gone cold until late evening.

He’d been placated when he knew they were at least going to the right direction, but when they had lost their sense of direction, he had lost his patience.

They were going on two days with Ja’far missing, and they hadn’t made a brisk pace today. Drakon was insisting they take a break for sleep and food while it was dark, and all Sinbad could think was that they were losing Ja’far. That he was slipping farther and farther away.

“Masrur is a child and he needs rest Sinbad, be rational.”

“Be rational? It’s been two days, Ja’far could be halfway to anywhere by now!”

“He’s been off on his own longer than two days I’m sure, he will be alright.”

“He probably will, but we’ll lose him,” Sinbad says frustrated. “If he calms down and doesn’t want to be found, we won’t find him!” Drakon looks down his nose at Sinbad.

“You need to calm down. He will come back.”

“You don’t know that,” Sinbad grumbles, sliding to the ground and crossing his legs, pouting and petulant.

“Neither do you.” Sinbad doesn’t say anything, he just pulls a pack of food out and starts picking at it, his stomach far from hungry. Halfway through he ends up passing his piece silently to Masrur who takes it happily.

Drakon pretends not to notice Sinbad isn’t eating. Or that he isn’t actually sleeping when Drakon takes first watch.

For Sinbad’s sake, they keep moving after Masrur had taken a rest, and Sinbad had faked taking one as well. Drakon said he had military missions in Partevia where he’d had to stay conscious for days, and he would be fine. Sinbad gave a half-hearted complaint, but Drakon could tell he was just giddy to be moving again.

How his own life would have differed if his brother cared as much about him as Sinbad cared for his companions. His compassion and worry made him proud to follow the man, but his rashness and abandon made his worry. One could only see so much with that large of a heart before he broke.

* * *

 

He was on his fourth day from home now. He hadn’t eaten since the morning of the first, and it had been inconsequential food at best, and most of it was in a dried up pool of vomit on the side of the road. More than that he was thirsty, the sun had been drying him up like a raisin, and his lips felt chapped and cracked, his skin dry and peeling, and he was miserable. But he remained quiet, he continued following the people he knows belonged to his guild, that still worked for the organization.

He had followed them through the night, sat in the tree watching as they took turns sleeping. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get to their destination, and he wondered why. They hadn’t said much besides occasional bickering since the first conversation either, and he was seconds from killing two and pressing the last for information.

He was already irritable from the heat and from the way his stomach revolted against him, he didn’t want to follow these children any longer. He took a breath and held it, slinking closer to the group until all three were right in his sights, ten feet below him, one gesturing wildly as he complained about this annoying game of cat and mouse they were playing with someone who wasn’t worth their time.

He was surprised to see them dressed as normal travelers rather than in the scraps Ja’far was used to seeing people from the organization wear. Then again, it made sense. Looking like normal travelers would let them get closer before suspicion began to dawn on anyone from the company. He could see the tell tale red of the weaponry that was favored by the organization wrapped around the bodies.

“You don’t think he’s worth our time? Are you that damn stupid?”

“He’s just one guy, what the hell could he do?”

            Ja’far drew his weapons, slowly, careful not to make a sound as he bated his time, muscles taught, desperate to let loose like the tight string of a bow, ready to let fly the arrow of his will.

            “Our old chief could barely scratch him, you better watch your arrogance or you’ll get killed.” Ja’far froze, feeling as if he’d been sent under a waterfall of icy water and darkness. They were here for _Sinbad_.

            “He must have been more of a pussy than we thought. Him and those guffoons he always had trailing him. I’ll enjoy bleeding out all of ‘em traitors.” Ja’far’s grip tightened. “And that stupid Sinbad. He ain’t what they’ve cracked him up to be I know it, he’ll go down like anyone else, like the village trash he is.”

            Wind swept through his sweaty hair as he dropped through the branches, his knife landing through the foul man’s mouth, causing it to spew blood instead of putrid words and he spun on his heel, using the momentum to throw the other through the eye socket of the second man, then leaping forward, wires wrapping around the wrists of the last man, the blades anchoring themselves in the ground as Ja’far’s knees slammed into the man’s shoulders with a crack. He pulled a simple knife from the back of his trousers to hold at the man’s throat as he spat words into his face. He was sure his breath was rancid, and he hoped he’d at _least_ dislocated the guys shoulders, even if he hadn’t been the one who’d been spewing that filth.

            “What do you know?” He growled, thrusting the knife forward enough to draw a neat line of blood. The man below him had dark eyes and looked utterly unsurprised at Ja’far’s presence. “Talk before I fucking make you do it.”

            “What do I know about what, be specific child.” Ja’far pulled his knife back, thrusting it through the outstretched hand of the man, causing him to writhe beneath him and grunt in pain. Ja’far sneered, that kind of reaction showed obviously poor training. He shouldn’t be exhibiting near that kind of reaction to something as trivial as that. Ja’far twisted the knife in the wound before leaning close again.

            “Where is Sinbad?” He hissed. The man said nothing, and Ja’far withdrew the blade from his hand, twisting it deftly in his hand before positioning it at the man’s ear, the wet bloody tip warming the shell of his ear before he spoke again. “If you want to keep your hearing, you’ll speak.”

            “I hear he’s running a tacky trading company.” Ja’far pushes the blade and clasps his hand over the man’s mouth to muffle his cries. Ja’far rolls his eyes, wondering how in the hell someone as undisciplined as this was sent after Sinbad. Blood streamed from the man’s ear before Ja’far pulled back, and the man whimpered beneath him.

            “What are your orders?” He asks, voice oddly calm and distant, surprising even himself.

            “You know.” The man gasps out and Ja’far has quickly grown tired of this game. A small sound behind him makes his fingers twitch and a twisted smile works its way over the face beneath him. The man spits at Ja’far and Ja’far pulls back, wiping the foul shit off his face, “you’re fucked _boy_.”

            Ja’far realizes the man is looking past him now and he turns in time to see hulk of a man who may damn well be near Hina’s size let his arm spring forward, a club in his fist, and Ja’far only has time to lift his arm to try and block it, and feel the crack of his bones as the club crushes them between it and his skull before he’s on the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make it longer, to try and make up (at least a little bit) how long it took me to update.
> 
>  
> 
> I also may go back through and edit this periodically (what I saw skimming through did not make me very happy -_-)
> 
>  
> 
> Until next time, (which will hopefully be a shorter period of time then the last until next time I gave)
> 
>  
> 
> Cassie – Asthmatic Glader.


	8. Wiping this life anew

It was sunset when they reached the town. Passing through a gate hung in a stone wall, bricks a shade darker than the sand scattered at the base. The whole town was bathed in orange from the glow of the fading sun, just a shade away from making it look ablaze in the heat. Patches of bleak grass stuck up around the base, trying desperately to live in the patches of shade the structure cast, their roots clawing into the ground, but still the blades were brittle and the color washed out with death.

            Sinbad led his band through and to the nearest inn, a small place with heavy swinging wood doors and a squeaky middle floor board. He checked them all into one room, intending not to stay beyond the night, and knowing it would be plenty accommodation for their ragtag team. His steps dragged with weariness, prolonging the scuffle along the wood, a sharp contrast to Drakon’s quick precise footing and Masrur’s silent steps.

            “I’m going to go get some food, see if I can refill our supplies,” Sinbad says, the door having barely clicked closed from their entrance. Masrur was sprawled across the bed already, and Drakon stood with his arms crossed at the base of the furniture.

            “You need to rest. Allow me to get food,” Drakon says.

            “I’m fine, and I want to get a look around, see the lay of the city.”

            “You _want_ to pester the towns people about Ja’far.”

            “So?”

            “You need rest. At this rate I will be carrying you by the end of tomorrow. I have no desire to do that, and it will make us slower. Lie down, I will be back shortly.” Sinbad huffed a breath, his violet bangs flipping up with the current of air before falling back in straggles across his face. “And perhaps take a bath, you too Masrur.” Masrur made no motion nor sound to say he acknowledged or even heard Drakon, but he took his leave regardless, and Sinbad looked around, taking in the wide set window, the potted tree in the corner, and the couch that looked like it might be somehow more uncomfortable than the floor.

            Regardless, he chose to sit on the unappealing armament, his body sagging as soon as the tension to remain standing had left it, and he found himself stretching out along the lumpy surface, eyes slipping closed and mind drifting away to unconsciousness.

* * *

 

            Blood colored white hair like sin tainting the innocence of a white rose, like dye blooming in water, spreading along his temple and staining the ground, marking it with his life. His skin was burnt, his feet had skin hanging off in tatters from the abuse of his fleeing, his palms were calloused and his trousers torn.

            And he was still, like a doll, or a corpse. So very still, his breath so very unpronounced, barely there as it passed through his lungs and out to mix with that of the trees.

            Whispers were exchanged between the now three men, plans and conspirings about what to do next, how best to proceed, reiterating what their orders were. But none of this was for him to hear, if anything they were radio static in his confused mind, his neurons still trying to jump their gaps to form thoughts, still trying to put the pieces together as to how he got in this position, laying stagnant on the ground, dirt under his skin and grass poking at him, a ant crawling along his toe.

            He felt both out of body and trapped within, like somehow he was floating but being held down, drowning in himself. He wanted to scream but he couldn’t open his mouth, and the part of him that had been suppressed, the part of him that really _is_ a child longed to cry for Rurumu to help him, to give in to those desires to be cared for and protected, to have Sin come in and procure him, rescue him and take him home. The child in him was quickly overpowered by the learnt part of him, the realistic side of his façade that told him if he was getting out it was by his own skin and teeth, not by the grace of anyone else, and he was capable, he was god damn capable.

            Or at least he hoped he was.

 

* * *

 

            Drakon did a survey first, checking the boundaries of the town and then working his way inwards, marking mentally the shops and other marketplace type locations. He asked a couple of shopkeepers about where he could procure certain items, and if they had seen a white haired boy come through here recently. They call claimed to have not seen someone like that recently.

One man, the most recent he had spoken to, had commented that the person he was looking for sounded like quite the rarity, and Drakon had narrowed his eyes at the way the words had been spoken, and wondered if he had a evening business trafficking people rather than goods. Normal human beings don’t generally describe people in that fashion, and it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“How can I help you sir?” A woman, barely in her twenties, with honey brown hair wound in a braid and pulled to drape across her shoulder.

“Do you know somewhere in this vicinity I could find meat jerky?”

“I have some up for sale here actually, boar, bison, few different varieties.”

“Wonderful, do you have any other non-perishables?”

“I have some dried fruits, but I’m afraid that’s about it. Jerome down the way has some better stuff for travelers, I do well with a good meal while you’re in town,” she says, a small smile gracing her face and kindness lighting up her pale green eyes.

Drakon pulls his hood farther down, he’s not sure what people think when they see him, this giant hooded, shrouded creature, but she seems somehow unperturbed by his appearance, and he wonders if that is a norm for a traveling town, or if it is a trait that is her own.

            “I’ll take the jerky, fruit and meals for three,” he says as gently as he can, not wanting to break the bubble of normalcy he seemed to have found here, no gaping eyes or questioning stares, almost as if he was’t a monster, he wasn’t abnormal, he wasn’t… this.

            “What kind of meals would you like?”

            “Whatever you suggest is good,” he says, and he thinks his voice sounds jovial, for he can’t really put a smile to his lips, and he’s still figuring out how to put it in his words instead, but he feels it probably still comes out the same as always, overly formal and a little monotonous. But she gives a small giggle and smiles, then she turns and he hears himself calling out for her.

            “Is there something else?”

            “Have you seen a boy, small, white hair, red wires, looks lost?” He’s not sure how else to describe Ja’far, he’s not sure what he was wearing when he left, or if he had changed since then, hell he could be covering his hair, knowing it would be a distinctive feature, a _rarity_ as the gross man had said.

            “About a day ago, he was up on the roof over there across from me, looked sick. Is he a friend of yours?”

            “He is, I’ve been trying to find him for some days now. Did you see where he went?”

            “He tore off back out of the city, I don’t think he’s hanging around, seemed like he remembered something urgent on the roof. I tried calling to him, really small thing, get him some water at least, or something to cover up with, his face was burnt and his arms too.”

            “Yes, he does not enjoy sun.”

            “Do you come from around here?”

            “We were settled in Reim, he is not from here I do not believe, and I was from Partevia along with our company president. Though different parts.”

            “That’s some ways off,” she began busying herself with tasks as she spoke. “Must be nice, being able to see different places.”

            “Perhaps under different circumstances,” he says, unable to quite hide the bitterness that still colored the reasons he had to flee alongside Serendine.

            “Here you are,” she hands him a basket, and he gives her a handful of gold pieces. “Oh that’s far too much,” she says but he’s already turned away, already moving on.

            “Keep it, maybe you can travel as well someday,” he says before turning a corner. No amount of money could amount to what her information would mean to Sinbad, and he may even be scolded for not giving her more in exchange for the words concerning Ja’far.

            He lets out a soft snort, thinking about the ways Sinbad has drug himself around looking for the smaller boy, how even through his distrust and lingering assassin ways Ja’far latched himself to Sinbad and to Rurumu.

There’s a bond there, one he can’t hope to understand, having been rooted mostly in

formalities and necessities, even his friendship with Serendine hadn’t felt quite genuine until as of late, when they were friends out of desperation and loss rather than commitment or obligation. Neither were ideal circumstances, but the former felt more real, more solid, more legitimate than the latter ever had. The conversations in palace hallways didn’t hold a candle to the few short words they exchanged on the roads now.

He feels more her friend now then ever he had growing up together, despite her sometimes obvious and painful fear of him.

* * *

 

            _Drip. Drip._ It’s the color of a red apple. Not the cartoon red apple you see in Snow White, and its not the color of Aurora’s lips. It’s darker, in every sense of the word. Crimson or burgundy. _Drip. Drip._ It’s the life that flows through your veins, and it’s spilled out across the floor.

            He’s whimpering softly. _Drip. Drip._ His skin is pale, and gods there’s too much on the floor.

            He won’t tell them what they want, and the words are like static, he can’t hear them, not clearly, they open their mouths and it’s white noise, and he’s not sure if its because he doesn’t really care, or because he can’t process it. But the screams, those have started again and he can hear those like the sounds, the waves are being deposited directly into his ears, there’s no obstruction there, and he can hear the pain and the grit as it passes over worn out vocal cords and raw throat.

            _Drip. Drip._

            Why won’t it stop. He won’t talk, so why won’t they stop. Why can’t it be over, he needs to be safe, he needs to be _home. Drip. Drip._

            Suddenly there’s screaming, and the pain is his own, and the hoarseness is in his own throat, and tiny fists are in his shirt shaking him and he’s on the lumpy couch and the dripping fells one last splash, as warmth slides down his own cheek, tears falling from his eyes as the nightmare burns away, fades to the light of reality, of the dim awareness of the room, with Masrur straddled over his chest shaking at him silently.

            He lifts his hand to swipe the tears away and the fanalis leaps back agilely, continuing to backstep until his thighs hit the bed and he can flop backwards again, sprawling his arms out and closing his eyes, obviously not done with his own rest. His breathing is ragged and heavy, and he’s still trying to push the nightmare farther back, farther away from his mind, to a place where he can’t see his friend struggling to breath, in pain and unable to form words outside of pained screams, his skin pale with blood loss, his freckles standing out to sharply against his skin, and his eyes rimmed dark and hollowed by torment.

            Sinbad wipes away a last tear that slips out before he stands, pacing around for a few minutes before Drakon comes through the door looking uncharacteristically pleased for someone who just took an outing among people, something that generally has the opposite effect on his friends disposition.

            “Are you alright Sinbad?” Drakon inquires as the door swings shut. Sinbad takes a couple deep breaths, anchoring himself in the reality before him. _Drip._ His head snaps to the side at the sound, which he discovers is Masrur drooling from his position now half-hanging off the bed.

            “Of course,” he says, trying to inflect as much bravado in his voice as possible, but even to his ears it sounds hollow, and if he can’t fool himself, who can he fool? Thankfully though, Drakon simply nods, but not in a way that conveys acceptance of his answer as truth, but acceptance as a form of resignation. “Should we wake him?”

            “No, let him sleep. He has the nose of a hound, when he’s ready to eat he’ll wake to the smell I’m sure,” he wouldn’t want to interrupt Masrur’s rest again, and he couldn’t help but be envious of the sound sleep the boy was having, and the ease with which he had fallen into it, it had been mere minutes since he had been pulling Sinbad from his terrors, yet there he was, so deep in sleep one could have believed he’d been there for hours.

            “Yes you are probably correct,” Drakon says, pulling the hot meals from the basket before moving to divvy up the other provisions and items he had acquired. “I have news,” he says, his back to Sinbad as the counter quickly becomes populated with assorted odds and ends for travel. Sinbad perks up, and then stands, crossing the room swiftly to stand beside his friend.

            “Well don’t tease me with it, what did you hear?” He says, some of his boisterous personality returning to his words at the offered hope Drakon inferred with his words. He turned to meet eager golden eyes, their color aflame with a mix of desperation and renewed optimism.

            “One of the shop keepers said she saw a white haired boy on a rooftop just yesterday, but that he had fled. It also seems he is probably ailing of a sunburn.” Despite the heaviness and stress of the situation Sinbad couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Ja’far and the sun did not have a good relationship, and the boy was downright petulant and aggrieved by it.

Sinbad had joked with him one afternoon aboard the ship that he would have to have a headpiece as part of his uniform if they settled anyway the sun shone even remotely direct overhead. He had gotten a very solid, very painful, jab to the arm for that comment. He rubbed absently at the spot long since healed as his amusement died down.

“Naturally, I doubt he’s even noticed,” Sinbad mumbles, knowing when Ja’far is focused, it is almost singularly so, to the point he will forget to eat or drink should he become focused enough.

Gods every little thing he thinks connects him to Ja’far, and it’s downright painful with things in the state that they are, not knowing if he’ll get to tease the boy anymore, or watch him work with Rurumu or grow even further into the kind soul he was meant to be. The one conflicted with his past and moving towards a future, one that as the days passed with him missing, seemed to be drifting farther and farther out of reach, closer to the realm his nightmare had come from, of imaginings and creations, but not of reality.

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder, and the sharp points of claws rest against his shoulder blade, there but not uncomfortably so and he lifts his gaze to meet Drakon’s eyes again. “He will be fine, and we will get him back. She said it looked like he was heading for the gate we entered from, so he’s probably along that path. We can go to the roof where we know he was, see if Masrur or I can pick up a trail again,” the grip on his shoulder tightened. “But for now, eat, and rest.”

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t see. The first thing he noticed upon waking was it was still dark, which he quickly discovered was thanks to a bag over his head.

_Not conspicuous at all,_ he thought to himself, traveling with a bagged child, its like they don’t care what people think, and maybe they don’t. Maybe they are on a path where they don’t have to worry about running into others, or maybe they are on a mental path where those they run into that want to say something will be ended. He much preferred the first path, even if that one bespoke a poorer prognosis for his situation.

Enough people have been hurt because of him, enough by his own hand.

“That was easier than I thought it’d be,” he heard one mumble, a gruff deep voice he felt probably belonged to the one that had snuck up on him.

            “What’dya ‘xpect. E’s gone all normaler now, all weak and soft. S what ya get for leaving ta, shoulda known no one leves. Ell, wadn’t he sent on one of them missns to ketch a traiter, didn’te lead that there group?”

            “Who, the fuck, cares. We got him, let’s just go home. He’s there problem now.” _Home._ Fuck. Going back to Partevia? No way. He was careful to control his breathing, doing his _damndest_ to get them to think he was still unconscious. The more chance he had at surprising them the more likely it was he’d be able to make a break at all.

            The one had a spear, but he wasn’t sure what kind of weapons the other two had, but he was pretty confident in his ability to think on his feet, as long as it wasn’t something like a gun, those are problematic even for someone with practiced reflexes, and he’s been shown exactly _how_ out of practice he really is. He very gingerly pulls at his wrists, testing the bonds there, and surprised when he feels his wires shift as well. He expected they would have disarmed him at their earliest opportunity, yet here he is. A brief thought flits through his mind like a hummingbird in a summer’s meadow, they _want_ him to escape.

            He thinks about it for less than a second, the reasoning clicking with him and suddenly his body is on fire. He lunges his body weight over the man’s shoulder that was lugging him around, sending his lithe body through the air where he ducked and rolled, cutting through the bounds on his wrists and sending his leg out in a messy swing, colliding with what sounded like someone’s chest judging by the _‘woomph’_ that resounded from the impact.

            He ripped the bag off his head to see the three before him, strangers, not men he had known in his time at the organization, and he turns and flees. Not towards home, not knowing that’s exactly where they want him to go, but towards somewhere, somewhere he hasn’t seen. Somewhere…

            His face is in the dirt before he can register the painful grip around his ankle, and he bites down hard on his cheek to keep from crying out. He snaps his head back to look, and sees the grotesque disfigurement of an arm, the bones extended and jagged, and long fingers wrapped around his ankle in a vice grip, and he’s being pulled through the air back towards his former, and now once again, current captors.

            _Fuck._

 

* * *

 

            Sinbad hadn’t eaten much, just enough to get Drakon to quit glaring at him from over the table before he passed it over to Masrur who chowed it down with gusto, the boy having a seemingly unending appetite, but at the same time never vocally complaining for more. He wondered if that was something growing up as a slave had taught him, to take what was given to you in any amounts, and not to complain about it. Hell, he’d pretty much been instilled in as much in the short time he’d been there.

            He still didn’t sleep well, and seeing how young Masrur was, it made his heart ache all over again for the rest of the children back at the company with the same befouled childhood, the same pain and the same desperation lingering behind hopeful smiles, hope of a better way and a family.

            Sure, at the time maybe it hadn’t seemed so bad, but he had seen their faces when they realized what that monster of a woman really was, and what the treatment they had undergone was for truth, not the fictitious imaginings she had implanted into their small and fragile skulls.

            He wondered how they slept, if they ever woke with nightmares and had to be comforted back to sleep the way he did, if they had a someone in their group they turned to when it seemed bleak and painful, if they had an equivalent to what Ja’far was to him, and then he scoffed a little, earning a soft look of confusion from both his companions. There was no one life Ja’far, he was one of a kind, in the best ways, and in the not so best ways; he couldn’t even bring himself to say ‘worst ways’ because there were no worst ways about him. There were bad habits and he took himself very seriously and he was protective to a fault, and he’d bleed himself dry to help someone else yet still insist he’s a bad person.

            These weren’t good things, but they were _him_. And they were good, and they were things he missed despite how some of the things he did troubled Sin, or how he wished some of them would stop, he wished the absence in his life would stop more, even if it brought back the fear and the concern for the well-being of the boy, hell _for_ that concern, because he certainly wouldn’t worry for himself.

            He wondered how he was faring, and imagined Drakon was probably right, he was probably okay. The nightmare he’d had was nothing more than that, nothing more than his imagination doing the worst, taking the fears his friend had expressed and creating that horrible illusion. Ja’far was fine… Ja’far was fine…

            This continued as a mantra of a slowing dissipating mental stability as the time increased that Ja’far was not found, and clues pointed to him not being as okay as he had hoped.

* * *

 

“Where are the other two?” It was a snake of a man, the one who had grabbed him back, thin and practically oozing venom. His movements were languid and fluid, much more like a dancer than an assassin he thought. The hulk of a man stood in the corner behind him, silent. They were a pair, one tall and lanky, the other more burly; one talkative and graceful, the other quiet and clunky.

            The way the large man moves around the room Ja’far couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed him come up behind him, how such a person could have snuck up on him, whether he’d been preoccupied or not, he couldn’t fathom that he was _that_ out of practice, he hadn’t been out of the force that long… Gods what use was he. His head snapped to the side with the impact of a backhand across his left cheek. He could taste the bite of copper on his tongue from where the lash had caught him off guard, too lost in his hindsight to pay attention to the present.

            “Bite me,” he hissed out. He was hanging by his arms, his feet several inches off the ground. He’d been here a couple of hours now. He had woken standing, arms above him but his legs still taking the brunt of his weight, but as soon as he’d shown consciousness, he had feigned unconsciousness successfully for a duration trying to overhear conversations, he had been suspended. His shoulders ached and his toes tingled and he was swaying slightly still from where he’d been struck.

            The man gripped his forearm tightly, stopping the motion as if it offended him. Ja’far tilted his head at the man, dark eyes peering at him with many emotions, curiosity, loathing, boredom, but not fear. He wasn’t afraid. Well, not for himself. He briefly worried that if they had found him, they would be onto Sin and the others as well, but the questioning soon proved they didn’t know where Sinbad was, and it had been a very fortunate circumstance that they seemed to have picked up his own trail after he had bolted, meaning they had no real way of knowing where he had come from.

            Sin was safe for now, and if he kept them pre-occupied with himself, he could likely keep him that way, or “break” some hours later and give them a location way off base and hope Sin would be ok if they ever _did_ find him.

            “Baby boy you better start talking, or I’m going to start having some real fun.” Ja’far rolled his eyes internally at the threat. This guy was so _predictably_ it was downright painful. Maybe that was the real torture, having to deal with him and his threats.

* * *

 

They went out to the rooftop the shopkeeper had said she’d seen Ja’far at, and the moment they laid eyes on it Sinbad’s stomach fell. He saw the carving in the corner and knew exactly why Ja’far had fled the way the woman had described. It was a symbol he was familiar with, one associated with the organization, it looked like an eye flanked with winged eyelashes on both sides, making it appear to be not a right or left eye, but some symmetric center one, like a third eye, like the one that seemed to appear in his Djinn equips.

“I can smell him,” Masrur says suddenly, and takes off at a brisk jog. Masrur had mentioned before Ja’far didn’t smell, and that at first it had unnerved him because it didn’t seem human, didn’t seem possible, for everything has a scent, and his sense of smell was something he liked, something that told him so much about the world, more than his eyes could or that his hands could process, smell brought him home.

Sinbad and Drakon followed him after sharing a confused tilt to the head, and Sinbad shrugged and Drakon rolled his amber eyes. After about ten minutes, Masrur took off like a bullet and it took Sinbad and Drakon some time to catch up to him, and when they did he was standing still, gaze locked on a darkened spot on the ground.

Sinbad came to a stop, wheezing and gasping at the effort, he was built to _fight_ not to run for solomon’s sake. All joking swept through his thoughts when he saw the tension in the boy’s shoulders, and Sin felt like all the blood and weight of his body was suddenly in his feet as he dragged them the few steps closer to see what Masrur saw, to look at the darkened, and reddened patch of soil, the fixation in the fanalis’s eyes, to see the bloodstain, and to see all the signs pointing to who it belonged to.

His legs gave out and he fell to his knees in front of the spot, his fingers clawing at the dirt in his immediate throws of despair, and suddenly the nightmare he’d had came back like a kick to the lungs and he was gasping for a whole other reason.

Ja’far wasn’t okay.

He _wasn’t_ okay.

He _isn’t_ okay.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is. I haven’t forgotten about any of my stories, I just had a lot going on and a really bad downswing with my mental illness, but I am on the upswing again and will be getting around to updating them all, and more frequently, not that I’m feeling better.   
> Please review, seriously those were what got me back in this story and helped get me to do something even if it didn’t go terribly quickly.   
> I read every one and thank you for taking the time to read this, see you all soon!  
> Cassiel-of-thursday


	9. Even through my Suffering

** WARNING FOR GRAPHIC DISPLAYS OF VIOLENCE **

He was tired. That was a mild way of putting it. He was downright exhausted. Between the travel and the emotional stress of it all, and then part of his guards torment included sleep deprivation. He had been painstakingly dragged for hours across the indiscriminant land with the bag over his head, unable to know where they were headed except for that his body told him it was mostly south, and a little bit to the East.

He figured they were probably slowly meandering down to Partevia where he would face the court of the organization for treason, and be strung up until he either gave up his friends and was put out of his misery, or died from starvation, infection, both or neither.

He couldn’t say he wasn’t mildly hopeful they would make another stupid mistake that would allow for his escape, he knew it was stupid, knew the first escape was probably scripted, an attempt to break his spirit, to give him hope of freedom and then crush it beneath sandaled feet. That was probably all it was, and yet, he stayed vigilant, he stayed aware of every jostle, every sound, kept track of every piece of information he _could_ gather, and hoped, _prayed_ even that he’d get a chance to use it.

And now, now he was in the dark, in a cellar somewhere. It was cool when he had been pulled into the structure, which led him to believe he had been delivered in the dead of night to their likely halfway location. A place for the grunts to rest a couple days, and snake man was using it as a time to try and take initiative and get answers before the court got to Ja’far. He almost hoped the man would slip and kill him, then he would be punished.

He knew he was meant to be brought in alive, otherwise they would have killed him when he was unconscious, instead of wrapping him up like a present and dragging him through the forest, desert and who knows where else. He would have been dealt a killing blow instead of a incapacitating one when the burly giant had snuck up on him. He didn’t know why though, it was highly unlikely he would break.

It was wearing on him though. The waiting. It had been some time since the snake man had been in there with him. He’d just been hanging here, arms above his head, toes barely grazing the floor. His arms had long since gone numb, and every now and then he’d adjust, wiggling enough to keep from permanent nerve damage, though returning the feeling to his arms always hurt like a bitch. He knew it’d be worse to lose them altogether. He’d be useless like that if he even survived. What the hell could he do as a double amputee? What use would Sin have for him like that?

He shook his head, sweat falling to the floor and his bangs hanging in loose strands in front of his eyes. _Damn, I need to cut it again,_ he thought, gazing at the damp hair just inside his field of vision.

His mouth was dry from the cotton gag they’d given him, and he wondered if he know how many clues they were giving him. He estimates they aren’t very far outside of a town at this point, which is why he’s been gagged and also why the methods of getting him to talk have been moderate at best, someone screaming in the basement would draw attention, so they have to keep him quiet.

Footsteps down the stairs draw his attention, and he carefully steels his expression to one of smug neutrality, a “I don’t care that I’m here but I will get out,” look as the door opens.

“That there smug ass look ain’t gon’ be on your face long ‘ere boy,” the man says and Ja’far fights the urge to roll his eyes permanently into the back of his skull. “You wann’ tell me where them there friends of yurs arr?” He asks, pulling at the gag in Ja’far’s mouth.

“I don’t have friends, if you knew anything about me you’d know I don’t, what was it, “play well with others,” I believe is written somewhere in the debrief you should have gotten and read thoroughly so you’d know _exactly_ who you’re dealing-“ his sentence was cut off by a rough backhand to the face. “You hit worse than Rurumu,” he spits.

“And where might I find this here lady?”

“Don’t worry about that, you’ll be hard pressed to find in her when I put your smarmy, useless carcass in hell where it belongs, along with the rest this fucking organization when I burn it to the ground.” He knows his expression is manic but he can’t bring himself to care, he wants it all to burn, everything, the place he was raised, the place he was trained, the people who did it, the experiments they performed, all of it to be fucking ashes in the wind.

“Ya seem ta be forgettin’ a lil somethin’ there kiddo, you’re miiine, and I’d like t’ see ya get out these here bonds. We be talkin’ when ya do that. Till then, enjoy yer bath ya filthy damn traitor.” He turns a knob that was to Ja’far’s back and a steady stream of water, not a trickle but not a downpour, hits the top of his head and streams down his cheeks, neck and back, quickly drenching him and washing away some of the grit that had accumulated.

It’s cold, but not unbearably so, and he hangs his head, shaking out the water and then looking back up, plastering a smug smile on his face to be the last thing snake man sees as he closes the door. His long face contorts with anger as the door slams with much more force than was necessary and Ja’far lets out a small chuckle, wondering how far the standards have slipped since he left, seeing as that man can’t even keep his cool in the presence of an overly smug _child_. He knows that’s how they see him, a child. They don’t see him as the former chief of the organization and that’s their mistake.

He licks his lips, and then hoists his body up so that his mouth can reach the ropes holding him to the ceiling. _This is going to suck,_ he thinks as his teeth begin to dig into the coarse fibers.

 

* * *

 

Sinbad was crumbling, his world, his sanity, his hope, was all crumbling. Drakon on the other hand, was holding together, he was because he had to, because he knew someone had to, because their leader needed his strength now.

“It looks like there was a scuffle here, between three, no four people. The fourth looks like he approached from behind and was able to take Ja’far by surprise.”

“They went that way,” Masrur says, his face expressionless as he points to the southeast. “I can smell the blood,” he says quietly, before his hand drops to his side limp and Drakon looks to the sky, asking silently for strength.

Sinbad may be taking the brunt of the emotional impact, but Ja’far was close with Masrur too, closer than most but Hina at the company to the fanalis boy, and now a child, a _child,_ was looking at a dried patch of blood that belonged to his closest friend. How was this fair? This world, was unjust, and it filled him with such a righteous desire to change it his chest burned and he took that motivation and fed it into dragging Sinbad to his feet.

“Come Sinbad, if they had killed him why would they lug the body with them.”

“He’s a kid…” Sinbad mutters, “he’s just a kid, he doesn’t weight much, wouldn’t be hard.”

“Any extra effort they are not told to complete they will not do, that’s how assassins are, they have no purpose for his body, they want him alive. Let us go find him.”

Masrur snaps out of it before Sinbad does, taking the lead of the formation and taking them along, sniffing the air occasionally with Drakon taking up the rear, making sure Sinbad doesn’t fall too far behind the rest of them in his slump.

* * *

 

Ja’far let out a pained whimper, pained in the amount of fakeness he throws into it. He can practically feel the smugness radiating off the man behind him as he grunts, the whip lashing into his back and jolting his body. He’d long since learned to tolerate pain, and pain far worse than this man was capable of inflicting, but this was a show. This was a plan. This was his last effort to help the company before he fled.

Before he fled here, and his home.

They wouldn’t be safe while he and the organization existed in the same world, so he was going to pull away, but he was going to try and throw them off first. But to do that, he had to play this right.

That’s why he’s here, suspended from the ceiling by his arms, his tip toes just barely reaching the ground and pretending to be in so much pain he can’t control the sounds he makes.

The only pain he feels right now is emotional, knowing he won’t feel Rurumu’s kindness anymore, or Masrur’s playfulness, or Drakon’s subtle care, or Hinahoho’s protectiveness, or Sin’s companionship. The last one sends a different kind of pang through his chest than the others, perhaps because the bond he feels with Sinbad is so much different than the others.

He would say he loved Rurumu in a heartbeat, that he was sure of. But Sin… He couldn’t name that. Not really. Not the man who gave him a frankly undeserved chance at life, who strove to improve the world and valued the opinions of a former assassin in his plans, who he felt so comfortable around and who brought him a peace he had hardly known prior.

His other friends all gave him something of them as well, for one, friendship. He’d had comrades in the organization, but never friends and _never_ anyone he could even remotely say he trusted not to put a weapon in his back the moment the opportunity struck for them to advance over him. No, these people were kind and caring, not about what they had to gain, but about _him_. Masrur was a quiet boy, but they understood each other, they played well together and they bonded over a joint sense of misfitedness, slave and assassin.

He and Drakon weren’t particularly close, but there was still a overhanging concern he knew the former military commander had for him, a fondness and a friendship waiting to bloom more.

Hina, it was strange to say, was both like a brother and a father, and maybe he thought of it that way because he didn’t truly know what either meant. He never knew his parents, and never had siblings, so maybe that’s why he feels like he encompasses two altogether vague roles, but from what he knows neither completely fit.

And Rurumu, who took him into her family, his scarred and damaged and dark self, made him as much hers as Kikiriku, and he would never work his way out of the debt he felt to her. To all of them, for what they showed and taught him, and he would never ever forget them, and what he was doing now, that was for them, to give them all a chance to help others, to help Sin change this world, and he would take his problems around the world until he could eliminate the stain from the ground completely.

He didn’t know what he would do after that.

He cried out again as the lash hit a final time, before his body sagged against the bindings, blood dripping down his back and soaking the waistband of his pants, and footsteps pattering away, along with the telltale creak of the door. Ja’far spit on the ground, almost as if to push the vile weakness he had falsely displayed from his tongue altogether.

 

* * *

 

Sinbad followed Masrur and Drakon, one leading with his nose, the other watching the brush and ground like a hound on the hunt. There was something uneasy in his stomach, rolling over and making him nauseas and he couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t make it go away or put himself at ease. Seeing that bloodied spot on the ground had shattered the shimmering illusion he had created that Ja’far was okay.

Now all he could think was ‘ _how hurt is he,’_ or ‘ _is he even alive.’_ Drakon tried to keep his spirits up, tried to reassure him, and Sinbad did his best to not show how much he was disparaging on his face, but by the looks his friend kept shooting back at him, he was doing a piss poor job of it.

It was almost night time now, and they would stop soon. Sinbad wondered how much longer until they stopped permanently, until it was time to go home, to accept what probably happened to their friend and return to the company one fewer than expected, to tell everyone the spitfire boy they knew, the dedicated, passionate, caring, hard working _boy_ , child even, was gone.

How was he going to look Rurumu in the eye and tell her he failed? That he couldn’t bring him back. How was he going to look at Masrur and know he lost a dear friend, to look at the other kids he’d rescued who saw him and Ja’far as a team, and know that team was broken, to look at Kikiriku and tell him he’d lost his brother. How was he going to do any of that?

Drakon chose that moment to look back at him and it hit him, at the very least, if it came down to giving up, he wouldn’t be alone in facing people, Drakon would have his back, as much as they’d fought and been at each other’s throats in the beginning, Drakon had him now, and Sinbad trusted him wholeheartedly. Though, he had probably always trusted him a little more than he should have.

The memories brought a small smile to his face before it turned to a grimace when Ja’far came up in them, knowing how he’d been, guessing what was happening to him now. His own mind was driving him crazy.

They paused an hour passed dusk, having proceeded the last few hours in the same way, Drakon watching, Masrur leading, and Sinbad lost in his thoughts, silently behind them, but at least keeping pace which Drakon had to say was an improvement from when they began. Right after they had found the soiled dirt they had to pause every half hour and let Sinbad catch up, or Drakon had to gently lead him in a faster manner, and for awhile Drakon took up the rear to make sure they didn’t lose Sinbad at some point.

At least he was keeping pace, Drakon just had to keep thanking the little wins when they kept getting barraged by losses. Drakon knew it didn’t look good, but he also knew Ja’far, and that was the part Drakon thought Sinbad might be forgetting.

“Sinbad?” He asked as they ate. Sinbad stared blankly ahead, and Drakon called his name again.

“What’s up Drakon?” Masrur stared at the two quietly across from the little fire they had formed, it’s flames dancing up and tiny explosions of embers crackling from the bottom.

“Do you remember when you were telling me about how Ja’far attacked you when the two of you met?” Sinbad quirked a brow, obviously confused, and his face long with exhaustion, both physical and mental.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, cautiously.

“You had him bound, yes?”

“Yeah,” Sinbad said again.

“But he escaped?”

“Yeah, the little brat had a blade in his sleeve or something, got me in the face with it,” he said, a small smile gracing his face as he remembered how despite the circumstance, he had been slightly awed at the skill, both in his ability to escape, and his finesse in doing so.

“Because he is a very capable young man, yes?” Drakon pushed.

“Yeah, he really is,” Sinbad looked wistful and almost regretful.

“I know he is young, and we often turn away from his past, but perhaps now is a time where we should not, he was very skilled, I am certain he is alright Sinbad.” Sinbad smiled at his friend. “He is strong, and stubborn. Much like you. It would do your mind well to remember that.”

“Thank you Drakon,” he said, clasping his scaled shoulder. “I mean it,” he said as he swept by, setting up a place to sleep just beyond the fire. Drakon smiled to himself, that was the most reassured he had been all day, both about Sinbad, and about Ja’far.

 

* * *

 

Sinbad’s vision had barely faded to black before the nightmares struck him.

His friend, hanging suspended from the ceiling, his pants drenched in blood in the back, and a man with his face pinched between long slender fingers, hissing in his ear. Sinbad wanted to scream, wanted to tell the man to get his hands off his friend, wanted to cut off the offending limbs and hide Ja’far far far away from anything that could hurt him, but he couldn’t do anything. He was a bystander here, not a participant.

“Should we go back to the fun we were having earlier?” Ja’far whimpered, he _whimpered_ and Sinbad felt like he could explode as he watched the man’s other hand trail down his bare, scarred chest, his thumb on his hipbone and his long fingers wrapping around his back till he pulled it away and those fingers came away bloody and the sicko licked the blood off of them.

Ja’far twisted in his grip and he got a glimpse of the angry marks on his back, deep and overlapping in places, crimson and a few still oozing blood, like the one just above his waistband. Sinbad wanted to be sick. He was nauseas and he wondered if one could get sick in a dream, maybe he would get sick back in his spot in the woods.

“Where are the other traitors Ja’far?” The man said before gripping Ja’far’s thin neck in his hand and grasping it tight enough Sinbad could see his knuckles go white from his position ten feet away.

“Let him go!” He yelled but they didn’t hear him, he could barely hear himself over the blood thumping in his ears and the nausea churning in his stomach. “Let him go, Gods please let him go dammit!” He continued, muttering under his breath, his hands coming up to clasp over his own ears, trying to quell the noise.

It was like he was back with that woman, helpless to stop anything, painfully powerless, and he had to resist the urge to curl up in the fetal position in the corner and weep. He closed his eyes but it was like the image of his friend, blue in the face, drool trickling from his mouth and legs twitching against their tiny grasp of ground had been seared onto his eyelids.

He opened them again in time to see Ja’far gasping and the man throwing a kick to Ja’far’s side, and the crack of what was probably a rib.

_It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream. Fuck it’s just a dream._

Something felt far to real about this to be just a dream, but maybe that was because of the nature of the dream. He didn’t know but there was something about it that he just couldn’t shake, some reality to the haziness of unconsciousness.

He’d never heard Ja’far be so vocal in pain aside from the screams he had let out becoming a dark Djin. It seemed so wrong to hear the pained little cried fall from his lips, to see it scrawled across his face in screwed up expressions and pinched brows.

The image warped, spun around like he was seeing it through turning water before it refocused, and the man had a heavy iron bar, and he was swinging it around tauntingly, continuing to ask the same two questions, ‘ _where are the other traitors; where is Sinbad?’_

Ja’far held fast to his silence, practically biting his tongue as the man lashed out at him with the bar, and then he took careful aim and pulled back, snapping his body like a taught rubber band to his Ja’far in the thigh and

_–crack-_

* * *

 

He still had a sinking feeling in his gut when he awoke with Drakon’s hand on his shoulder at the brisk dawn of the day, ever grateful that the panic he felt inward didn’t seem to be presenting itself in desperate gasps for air or painful lashing about. Looking around he could see it was just before the sun truly melded with the sky, the overhead grey with ambiguity of the future and the dark still weighing both on his mind and in the sky. The only thing that could make it more fitting were rainfall, but as it were it looked like it would be a fairly clear day once the sun came up.

Masrur was snoozing lightly still, and Sinbad wondered if he had been woken because of his dreams or because they were getting ready to get going again, getting ready to get closer to the inevitable, to whatever was happening to their friend, to a body or a corpse, to solace or despair, and it was unbearable not knowing which.

Slitted eyes showed nothing but concern for him as he pushed himself up. Then the hand that had been warming his tense shoulders was gone to rouse the younger of the group.

He stretched and tried to ignore the overhanging feeling in his mind, the same kind of feeling he got when he was reading the waves at sea, or the motions of people in battle, only this one was like it was flowing backwards, up instead of down, left instead of right, overwhelming in it’s conveyance of wrongness. But he didn’t know what it was referring to, but the only thing he could think of was that something was wrong with Ja’far.

What else could it be? What was and had been the only thing he’d concerned himself with since the younger boy had fled, even more so knowing he was being held against his will by the people that had reared him on torment and suffering. Had bred a killer from such sweet and caring genes, had bullied his nature out of him and taught him hatred and spite, but who still couldn’t be ruined all the way.

They had a quick meal, Sinbad’s head still weighed heavy with thoughts of Ja’far and his dreams before they were on their way again.

* * *

 

It had been a solid day and a half of this. Of acting. Pretending. Playing a part, and he was exhausted. He wanted to sleep, but every time he felt he was drifting off, he might be getting rest, the snake man or the sasquatch of a man would come and do something to him.

‘ _I think it’s been long enough,’_ he thinks to himself. He hears the steps creak and the small squak of the doorknob. He’s dripping and cold from the attempts at waterboarding, his back lashed and his body bruised, and his femur broken or fractured. He feels dirty and achey, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

So he trembles, shaking in his bonds as the man opens the door, and he’s relieved to see it’s the snake man, the one who seems to be the intelligence of this operation, or at the very least, the one running the torture attempts.

He lets it continue about ten minutes into the new lashing before he starts begging for mercy, pleading that he would do anything for the pain to stop, and never has he been more grateful to be underestimated in his life.

“Where are they?” The man sneers in his ear and Ja’far suppresses a shudder.

“Kou. They fled to Kou,” he gasps out. “Thought the rising empire, could protect them,” he forces out between breaths, attempting to sound winded and pained and broken.

“And Sinbad?” Ja’far pauses, unwilling to give away a location for Sinbad, fake or not, and knowing that would be expected of him. He endures ten more lashes before he “breaks” again.

“Qishan, for trade. And he was hoping, ah, to learn about Kou and Magnostadt by being, ah, between them.”

“Alright,” he lets loose a hard crack and Ja’far cries out, blood trickling down his back, soaking his pants and flowing down his leg to pool on the floor. “Rest up child, we’re taking you home tomorrow.” He departs then, and Ja’far smiles to himself, and he wonders just how demented he must seem, covered in blood and grime and smiling to himself like a fucking mad man.

            He heaves himself up to take the last strong threads out with his teeth and when they give he drops to the floor quietly, and works out the kinks in his muscles.

            “Alright, time to die fuckers.”

* * *

 

            Masrur takes off like a bat out of hell for no apparent reason, leaving Drakon and Sinbad behind. Sinbad knows in his gut this is it, this is the now or never. This is the good or bad, and though his stomach is still queasy, it’s not with the rankness of death approaching, and he clutches that as he runs after the fanalis.

            It’s a small, nondescript cabin that Masrur stops in front of, holding his nose in his hand as he takes shallow, aborted breaths. Sinbad pushes past him and inside, his hand inches from his blade.

            The first thing that comes to him is _death._ Pure, stink, putrescent, vile, death. And his heart is in his throat as he scours the place for the source, and hoping to the Gods he doesn’t find a child sized corpse among the blood decorating the walls. Whoever went down didn’t go quickly…

            And then he sees it, sprawled at the end of the hall, like someone taken down while fleeing, possibly begging for their life in the midst of the violence, a half clad figure, and Sinbad wants to throw up, and gets now why Masrur was holding his nose the way he was.

            This was… it was…

            It was beyond words.

 

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna thank everyong who has been reading so far, and oh my gosh thank you for the lovely reviews, they have literally kept this story going (what with the recent canon developments :P). I am mostly over my cold and my medication is really seeming to help the bipolar part, and keeping me stable.   
>  I’m going to go to a every other week schedule, and try and get My teacher, my teacher back on a publishing schedule as well, as it has been neglected so far.   
>  If you have any suggestions let me know, and the next chapter is going to tangent off a tumblr post I saw, and for those distressed by their separation, *spoiler * it won’t be much longer.   
>  See ya’ll soon, hope you still enjoy and continue to review, I love hearing what you guys think!
> 
> Cassiel


	10. Even through my endless grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of child abuse/ child sexual abuse (literally a one line mention but wanted to put it out there for you guys who might be sensitive to that topic)

Red.

            The water was red. His hands were red. His clothes, or what remained of them, were red. He wasn’t entirely sure, were he to look in the mirror, his eyes wouldn’t be red as well.

            There was blood everywhere. It was on the walls, the ceiling, in the corners and crevices, and he was a weird mix of nauseated and excited by it. It was familiar, though he had never been so messy before his career had ended. At the same time, it was that familiarity that made him feel ill at the sight of it all, and had him washing his hands long past when the stain had passed down the drain.

            Knowing that people that cared about him would be upset at his actions, and not necessarily because of what he did, but because they wanted better for him, a better life, better than being torn between his heart and his survival; that twisted at something inside him and made him want to dry heave on the floor with the other mess.

            He slumped to the floor and let his head fall between his knees, shaky breaths passing between dried lips, and feeling the mangled flesh at his back pulling as it fought to heal itself. A choked sob pulled its way up his throat and he bit down on a finger to quell the noise. His shoulders trembled and tears fell as he tried to muffled the broken sounds coming from his mouth.

            He missed them so much, and every time he thought about Rurumu’s kind smile, or Sinbad’s boisterous laugh, or Masrur’s quiet companionship, or Drakon’s careful guidance, the sobs came harder, and his chest ached like something vital was being pulled from him with each tear that fell.

            He wanted to go home, and he knew that he couldn’t. Not now. Not soon, even. He had things to do.

            He picked through the house, grabbing new clothes and food, any money they had, and he left.

            It was hotter outside than he remembered, and though they were bandaged, his feet still ached from the abuse he had put them through, and his back was raw. He had his leg wrapped tight, but he still wasn’t able to put his full weight on it, and it left his gait rather lopsided despite his efforts. It made it harder to hide his footsteps and that made him angry, he was getting so sloppy.

            While he usually would have taken a thicker path through the underbrush, he was in too much pain to try very hard, and he took off on a straight path to the South.

______________________________________________________________________________

            “He isn’t here Sinbad,” Drakon’s cool voice responded, but Sinbad couldn’t take his eyes off the room he had seen in his dreams, the puddle of blood and the discarded whip and other similar objects.

            ‘ _He had been here, and he had been_ hurt _here. I’d known, and I couldn’t help him,’_ a touch to his shoulder jerked him out of his reverie and he looked up to meet amber eyes looking at him with concern.

            Masrur was sitting outside, he didn’t like the smell in here, it was too much for him, and Sinbad felt like that was probably more about the smell of Ja’far’s blood heavy in this room than it was that of the nameless kidnappers strewn across the hallways.

            “We should go Sinbad, he’s not here anymore,” Drakon says softly. Sinbad stands, but doesn’t say anything, his mind still reeling from the realization that he _knew_ what had been happening to Ja’far somehow, that he was seeing it from miles away, and how that hadn’t done him a damn bit of good in the end. None of it had, Ja’far had gotten away on his own, because he was strong, and he was gods know where, because he was dumb.

            Sinbad knew what he had to be thinking at this point, that the kid was considering himself a threat to the company because his guild had come after him, and now he was running from it, and dammit they could help him!

            He walks with Drakon to the door, and sets a hand on Masrur’s shoulder. The boy looks up at him with red eyes that look just a little too wet before he looks back down at the ground and Sinbad wants to curse, he wants to curse and yell and run and drag the little idiot back home to his family, because he may not understand it yet, but they’d rather have him, danger or not, because they love him.

            They just want him to be safe.

            “Do we know which way he went?” Sinbad asks quietly, already knowing the answer. Now that Ja’far was calm and on his own, there was no way in hell they’d be able to track him.

            “No. Masrur and I think he might have headed in the general south direction, but any scent he had is gone and he’s not leaving trails in the grass or brush. We can’t follow him.” Sinbad nods without thinking, and stares. _What do they do now?_ “Sinbad I believe it is best for us to return home now. We can keep our allies ears open, and if Ja’far plans to return, I believe we should be there.”

            Ah. There was that word. _If._ Because they didn’t know if he was coming home, but Sinbad felt it, in the same place he had felt the unease the past few days.

            He wasn’t coming home.

            They sorted through their remaining supplies, marked where they had gotten to on the map, and together, they made the solemn trip home. To tell their friends Ja’far wasn’t coming home. To tell Kikiriku his brother wasn’t coming back. To tell Rurumu her son wasn’t coming back, and for Sinbad to accept it himself. He couldn’t do that right now, he couldn’t afford to, he had Masrur to console and Drakon to lead, he couldn’t break now. For now, he’d cling to that tiny piece of hope that Ja’far only went South to gain his bearings at the first town, and then he’d be on his way to the trading company, despite how the thought twisted his stomach with its wrongness, he had to cling to it to keep going.

_______________________________________________

 

            He’d been walking for an hour at this point, and his legs already ached, and he could feel the sun burning into his cheeks despite the wrap he had over his head.

            He was right when he had assumed they weren’t far from a town, and he had passed the outskirts of a couple other properties during his short walk, but had stayed far enough away from them to avoid detection.

            He stepped through the break in the stone wall marking the boundaries of Khahkal and pulled the wrapping from his head, knowing keeping his head covered was more likely to make people wary of him, that coupled with his fairly obvious limp and lingering bruises marring his throat and face were likely to keep people far from him, and he needed out of here, and that would require interactions.

            The sun was setting, casting an amber glow over the city that made him long for home for some reason, to see the sun setting across a different corner of the sea, to see the sunlight sparkle over the water as it fell below the horizon as his family wound down for the night, as Rurumu put down the twins, as Masrur tucked himself away for the night, as he and Sin tried, often uselessly, to sleep and wound up crawling into the other’s bed for comfort from the pains they’d suffered at the hands of the world.

            He longed for something besides this empty loneliness, and he knew one day it wouldn’t be so sharp, that it wouldn’t be so raw, but right now it was. It just was. It was consuming and debilitating and it made the rest of him hurt all the more, like the weakness in his heart was poisoning the rest of him and re-opening wounds, bringing his pain to the surface and his fears to see the light as it faded like the dream of staying with the ones he’d grown to love.

            He stuffed the pain and the loss down, cramming it in a hole in his head he had grown used to stowing his pain in over the years, where he had been hiding until Sin had found him, in a deep dark part of his mind guarded by the façade he put up to the world to guard his softer side from the atrocities he committed. He wouldn’t go that far back, but for now, he needed to be strong before he could fall apart, he needed to get far away from Reim.

            He knew Khahkal was on the southernmost border between Reim and Partevia, and it nearly made him sick to know how far they had dragged him, and how close he had been to returning to where they’d crafted him. Crafted, not raised. People were raised with love and care and support and compassion.

            Killers, murderers, weren’t raised, they were crafted, bred, cultivated. Killers weren’t brought up with kind words and gentle reassurances, and they don’t come from families whose mommies and daddies told them they loved them.

            Killers came from people who beat them when they stumbled learning how to walk, who learn how to hold a blade before they learned how to write their name. Killers came from people who murdered their parents, who made people that brought him into this life choke on the blood that bubbled up through gagged throats but unbound hands, hands that for some reason had refused to fight him in those last moments.

            He shook his head. He couldn’t think about that anymore, and he pushed it back into the corner with his new family, cramming his weakness and his strength in the same place, for they came from the same source, and left behind the shell of himself.

            He spoke to a man at the docks about ships departing soon, and found one heading for Laviraz at dawn, and decided that would be where he embarked. It was to the East, between Magnostadt and Atkia, and would help divert the trail away from Sinbad back in Reim. It would also place him in the same continent as Kou should they become a problem as the power struggle their escalated.

            For now though, he used the little money he had lifted off his captors to get a bed at the inn, not wanting to put his battered body through a night of squatting before spending days at sea in uncomfortable quarters.

            The bed wasn’t terribly comfortable, but it was warm, and it was relatively safe. He figured it would take a few days before the organization realized what had befallen their would be retrievers, and before he would face retaliation from them. There was no way they knew already. He kept trying to reassure himself of this fact, that he could rest here.

            Regardless, the sleep he fell into was fitful, and filled with nightmares, of a terrified child being pulled at by dark shapes and figures, of his family falling to the same blades that he held, of Sin in chains again, of all the horrors he had fallen to and that could happen to those he cared about in his absence, and it was almost enough to pull his feet back to the North, and back to the trading company rather than to Laviraz, but in the end he had a goal, and a mission, and he was not one to accept failure, either legitimate or by defaulting.

            With yellowing bruises and circles under his eyes he boarded the ship and tucked himself into a corner below deck with his pack of stuff behind his back, and he attempted to catch a few more hours as they crossed the span of water between the two land masses.

            He stayed below deck for the duration of the journey, feeding on the rations he had confiscated from the house he’d been held in, and splitting his water between washing wounds and drinking. His leg was bad, mottled flesh gone black and purple, and he had to grit his teeth and bite back a whimper each time he re-splinted it, the pain sending his vision swimming at the edges for a few moments. The rest of him was mild, though he imagined his back was a sight, with the interlaced whip markings and bruises in various stages of healing.

            He hoped by the time they surfaced he would be a little bit more respectable.

_________________________________________

 

_two months later_

 

__________________________________________

            He’s slipping back into the inn in the dark of night, having just completed his last job. He’d been doing freelance work, waiting to get a solid lead on the organizations location, and taking down their agents as he comes across them, all the while laying down more lies and rumors about Sinbad’s whereabouts.

            He knew where Sinbad was, he kept very good tabs on him, knowing exactly the right connections to get into to be able to make that happen, being that he was learning those ropes already while he had been there with Rurumu.

            He still didn’t sleep well, and it showed, but the rest of his body had healed relatively nicely.

            He collapsed forward onto the bed after shirking off his shirt. He was exhausted, this last job had taken him almost all the way to Qishan, and then to the southernmost border between them and Kou chasing shadows of the organization, and slaughtering six of their agents before heading back.

            He’d set up a base here, and the underside of the city knew who to go to if they needed someone to disappear. The difference now though, was he turned down jobs he didn’t like, and he was paid with more than a continued existence. Petty disagreements he didn’t settle, because people seemed to be far too quick to hire a hitman to settle a property dispute, but what he did varied. He did freelance assassin work, he guarded wagons on their treks, that was actually a popular job for him, considering he almost never turned those down, especially when they were laden with women travelling.

            His eyes had barely slipped shut when a hesitant knock came at the door and he groaned before sitting up and pulling a fresh shirt on. He padded softly over to it, and swung it open to reveal a little girl with her hands wound tightly in her dress.

            “Can I help you?” He says softly, crouching down to reach her eye level. She was tiny, and that was saying something seeing as he was a slight figure himself, already shorter than a seven-year old fanalis and most other children his age.

            “I need you to help me,” she said, and there were tears in her eyes as she held out a wadded up bundle of money. “Daddy keeps hurting brother, and he hits mommy, and he needs to stop, I don’t want him to hurt anyone anymore.” She’s fully crying now, her small shoulders trembling and her voice hitching between words.

            “Who told you to find me here?”

            “Brother said to come here if daddy ever hurt me,” Ja’far was doing everything in his power not to growl at the girl. He didn’t find much more despicable than someone using their strength to hurt others, much less those they were supposed to care about, that they were supposed to protect, that they were supposed to fucking _love._ What kind of bullshit was that?

            “Did your daddy hurt you?” He asks, and he’s seconds from seeing red, and he knows the answer to his question when she looks up at him and he wants to break the fuckers face already. “Where is your daddy?” He asks, and he wants to congratulate himself on keeping his voice as steady and calm as it is, despite the way he can feel his hands trembling and the way he’s sure his body is tense and ready to fight, adrenaline already pulsing through his veins and making his skin feel hot.

            “He’s at home,” she holds out her hand with the wadded up money again, “I don’t want him to touch me again.” Her eyes went wide and fresh tears spilled out of them and she dropped the money in favor of gripping at his pants. “Mommy says I’m not supposed to tell that, pretend you didn’t know that please!” She begs and he wraps his hand around hers and brushes the tears from her face.

            “I’ll pretend,” he promises before picking up her money and putting it back in her chubby hands. “Keep this, okay? Where is your home?” She tells him she lives on the outside of town, in a little home by a big tree, and he tells her to make sure her and her mommy aren’t home in the morning, and he sends her off. Nighttime is a better striking time, but he couldn’t possibly let her be a witness to her father’s death, no matter what kind of despicable monster he may be, she doesn’t need to see it. Though he does have half a mind to take down the mother for insisting she stay quiet about her home life, he knows fear can perpetuate odd behaviors from people, but he plans to keep an eye on her just the same.

            He’s done this before, people who have come to him with everything they have begging for help for some great wrongness that’s been done to them, someone who’s hurt or mistreated or violated them, he can’t bring himself to charge for removing a stain from the planet, though they hardly ever let him walk away with nothing.

            He barely sleeps two hours, the same nightmarish dreams that have plagued him the eight weeks he’s been away forcing themselves into his subconscious and leaving him damp with sweat, heart pounding and limbs weak.

            He does exercises in his room until dawn breaks, and then he makes his way across town, to the place the girl had described.

            There’s loud crashes when he arrives, and he slips in through a window to see a bearded man hovering a scraggly teenager with a broken glass and something in him snaps and he’s leaping forward, taking out the man’s knees before he can even turn around and pinning his arms to the ground with his own knees.

            “This is less than you deserve you piece of filth,” he says, cutting cleanly at the man’s jugular. He could have easily done it from a distance, but a sick part of him got satisfaction from knowing someone as small and as feeble looking as himself was the last thing the abusive piece of shit saw before his life ended. “This is going to be a pain in the ass,” he mutters as he starts dragging the body out of the room.

            “Thank you,” a meek voice says, and he lifts his eyes to see the swollen face of the boy he’d saved from further torment.

            “You’re welcome,” he says quietly before continuing to tug at the body. The man is dreadfully heavy, and he can’t even find it in himself to complain when the teen helps him lift the body out of the house. “Go back inside,” he says, and the boy looks like he wants to protest before Ja’far levels him with a hard look, and he scurries back inside with less grace than a horse on ice.

            He spends the next few minutes dismembering the body and pulling dry brush from his surroundings and alighting the pile.

            He ducks back inside to see the boy cleaning the mess, and tells him curtly to put out the fire by noon, and not to look at it any sooner, and then he’s gone, running through the forest and slinging himself through the trees.

            He always feels conflicted after kills, a part of him feeling at home with the motions, and another feeling sick at his actions, no matter how just or how deserved they may seem, he just never feels quite right passing that ultimate judgment down on people. Who is he to say who is worth sparing? Yet he makes that decision often.

            He cleans up when he gets back, and wanders back out to the main market to see if any caravans need escorts for the day. He’s unsuccessful on that front, and instead uses his funds to buy some bread and cheese and sits at the docks and eats.

            It’s a beautiful day, and the sun sparkles like glitter atop the ocean waves, and the people are busy loading and unloading ships at the port, all of them going about their meager lives, and his mind shifts back to Sinbad and the others.

            His reminiscing doesn’t last long before the innkeeper, who is somewhat aware but turns an eye to his untowardly business, comes to him saying someone wants to speak with him. He sighs before agreeing to return in a few moments time.

            He doesn’t like being summoned, it’s typically someone pretentious who wants to pay him a gratuitous amount of money to do something very sleezy and underhanded, and he generally gets called an ungrateful brat or some other derogatory term when he declines.

            The last thing he expects when he walks in is to be told the person is waiting for him up in his room. That makes Ja’far very unhappy, and he’s practically seething when he throws the door open, reading to start saying obscenities regarding the blatant invasion of privacy. That all gets caught in his throat though when he sees the long braided blue hair and the mop of purple ponytail in his room.

_____________________________________

            “What are you doing here?” Are the first words out of his mouth. It’s Sinbad who answers, striding across the room until he’s standing right in front of Ja’far, and he practically has to crane his neck to look up at the other male.

            “I’ve been looking for you since you ran off that day.”

            “How’d you even find me?”

            “We found your mess in Khahkal, and then we went back to the company, and I had all my eyes and ears out for you. Then I get the report of a freelance worker over here acting like a vengeful angel on the wicked and it just felt right.”

            “What do you mean ‘felt right?’” Sinbad looks taken aback at this, and he rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly.

            “I have this gut feeling sometimes, like I knew you were in trouble, and then I knew you were okay again somehow, and I knew that the person they were talking about was you, I can just read things sometimes, it’s how I read you when we met.”

            “Then you know it’s a danger for me to go back?” Gold eyes were wide but this time it’s Rurumu who speaks up.

            “Ja’far, your brother misses you, we all do, and we want you to come home. Whatever is troubling you we can deal with together, and it you are seeking the organization, perhaps we can use Sinbad’s connections and you can find them with us if you are so desperate.”

            “We want you home Ja’far,” Sinbad says, and then he’s wrapping his arms around the smaller male, gripping him tightly, like the past two months had been as hard on him as they had been for Ja’far, like he too had woken in the night and wished he could go down the hall and see the other, to have the security that presence provided, to have the solace they found in each other.

            “They were looking for you when they came for me,” Ja’far says against his chest.

            “I don’t care, they came for you too, and you got hurt, and I can’t let that happen again. I need you Ja’far,” Sinbad whispers into his hair and Ja’far finds his arms coming up to grip at Sinbad’s shirt in the back, clutching the taller teen to him and letting himself relish in his presence, the one he’d been robbed of for what felt like so much longer than it had actually been.

            “Please come home with us Ja’far,” Rurumu says softly, and Ja’far pulls himself away from Sinbad to wrap himself in her warm embrace, in the embrace that felt like care and compassion and everything he’d been depraved of growing up.

            “Okay,” he says quietly, and the tension in the room that had been almost palpable dissipates with that one word, with that one syllable of agreement, and suddenly his body feels heavy with the weight of all he’s been carrying the past months and he slumps into the floor onto his knees.

            “Our ship leaves in the morning, I’ll go check myself in, look after him will you Sinbad?” Rurumu says, gently releasing Ja’far and moving for the door. Sinbad nods once, again closing the distance between them and helping Ja’far back up to his feet and to the bed.

            “You’re really here,” Ja’far mumbles as Sinbad lays him down.

            “Yeah,” Sinbad says dumbly, and tries to pull away to head for the door himself, intending to check out his own room, though he had every intention of making sure it neighbored or at least was close to Ja’far’s own when his pale fingers catch his and pull him back.

            “Stay,” Ja’far says sleepily, “please.” And who was Sinbad to say no. He pulls back the covers and chuckles when he realizes Ja’far is still wearing outerwear and shoes, and he carefully pulls off the shoes and tries to coax Ja’far out of his shirt at least, but when he does he wishes he hadn’t.

            His fingers trace over the healing scars twisted along the skin of his back, overlayed with freckles and the faint tinge of sunburn, and Ja’far shudders beneath him as calloused fingertips grace sensitive skin.

            “I’m sorry Ja’far,” Sinbad says before clutching the lithe body to his, and just before Ja’far feels himself drift off to sleep he’s certain he feels the dampness of tears wetting his hair, but he’s oh so tired and the only thing he’s able to even half coherently say is a “missed you” grumbled into the soft silk of Sinbad’s shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so part of this chapter was influenced by a prompt I saw on tumblr talking about an assassin doing a job telling a girl to keep her money when she says she wants the person gone because her creepy dad/uncle/whatever violated her and that's where most of the idea for this chapter came from. 
> 
> Anyway, please comment and let me know what you think, it's literally been my motivation to keep this story going and I love hearing back from you guys. :)
> 
> Cassiel


	11. With no Sunlight breaking through the Clouds

Coming home both was, and was not what he had expected. Particularly, the trip home was not what he had expected. Sin had been… quiet. Of course, he was pretty sure that was about what he’d said that morning.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_They had fallen asleep wrapped up in each other, bodies relishing in the physicality their minds refused to acknowledge was missed, filling gaps they hadn’t even realized were there. However, it’s easy to think things are going to be alright in the dark, before the light can shine on the dirt and the cracks in the foundation, and like all things, morning rose on their peace and reality shone through._

_Rurumu had knocked on the door and beckoned them to breakfast, and they had both been reluctant to leave the safe space of the bed, unwilling to face the world outside the sheets, motheaten as they were, Sinbad thought they were heaven; a palace of the Gods, a Djinn treasure chamber because they held one of his dearest friends safe and whole within them._

_Sinbad had literally rolled off of the bed, hair a tangled violet mess around him but Ja’far only sat up, making no move to come off the furniture._

_“Ja’far?” That seemed to trigger something in the younger male, and he swung his legs off the bed and padded quietly to a bad in the corner before tugging his shirt off, revealing his pals skin, barely concealed ribs and the tops of sharp hipbones protruding above the hem of his ill fitting trousers._

_Sinbad tried not to stare, but he could feel his eyes drying out as he focused on the kid, the_ child _he had failed to protect. He saw the way his skin was stretched over bones far too close to the surface, looking more poorly taken care of than when he’d first joined the company, and the scars… It had been one thing last night, tracing over them, but seeing them in the light, was nearly unbearable._

_They were in thick layers across his back and arms, some faded to white, pearly and paler than his already fair complexion, and others still angry and red, tinted with purple like a bruise mottling flesh far too young to be so mistreated and marked._

_Memories of his father came to him in a violent wave, and the thought of Ja’far in a similar fate made him nearly dry heave where he stood. Ja’far had a shirt in his hand when Sinbad couldn’t take it anymore and surged forward, locking strong arms around the boy, leaving his hands, still holding his shirt, trapped somewhat awkwardly in front of him as Sinbad embraced him from behind, face buried in his neck and purple hair coming forward to tickle over Ja’far’s still bare chest._

_“Sin?” Ja’far asked, pulling gently at the embrace but not enough to actually break free of it._

_“I’m sorry,” Sinbad mumbles against his skin, grip tightening, and his hair shifting, making Ja’far squirm in his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats, dropping his lips to an angry scar that reached the top of his shoulder and was curling it’s way around to his collarbone, and Ja’far struggled again._

_“Sin your hair is tickling me,” he complains, and he feels the lips on his skin curl into a smile and he knows he’s going to regret having said anything rather than just waiting for Sinbad to let him go._

_“Oh is it?” He asks, his voice mirthful, letting his hair sweep across his skin again and Ja’far let’s out a laugh, body twitching away from the sensation._

_“Seriously stop!” Ja’far complains and Sinbad does then, relinquishing his grip on the little assassin. They’re both laughing as Ja’far pulls his shirt on._

_“I can’t wait to be home,” Sinbad says, his eyes wistful as he looks out the window, “for you to be home.”_

_The sun breaches the horizon, spilling the full heat of the morning into their little room._

_“Sin, I can’t come home.”_

_More than anything, Sinbad wishes they were still embraced by darkness, by ignorance, and by happiness. Not surrounded by the fractured illusions he’d held and that had kept him going while Ja’far had been missing, while he’d been kidnapped, the thought that the only obstacle was finding him._

_“What are you talking about?” He says, and his voice is a rasp, and his throat hurts._

_“I can’t go. I’m sorry. I wish I could, I… I missed you all, but I can’t go. The organization hasn’t stopped, they won’t stop, until I stop them, and I can’t risk you all, I can’t risk Rurumu’s family, or your company, I just can’t. Not now.”_

_“You’re her family too, Ja’far,” he says, and he realizes he’s pleading now but he doesn’t care, he can’t care, he just needs him to come home, he needs him to be safe, he doesn’t want to see him again with more scars, with more pain etched into his skin, more instances of times Sinbad had broken the promise they’d made in that dungeon._

_“I can take care of myself, Kikiriku? He can’t, and I won’t ask Mahad and Vittel to fight this with me. I won’t ask any of you to. This is my fight.”_

_“You don’t have to ask us! We’re in this together, any of us, Mystras, Hina, all of us, we’ll help you.”_

_“That’s why I didn’t come home, I knew you would say that, and I can’t let you.”_

_“You aren’t letting me! Dammit, I’ve been making my own decisions for years, I don’t need your protection Ja’far. Have you even thought this through? How are you, one,_ one _person going to take down the whole organization. Huh? How? Tell me.”_

_“I’m working on it. I’m taking down their agents as I go,” he says, and notices Ja’far is packing his sack with the small array of items scattered around the room._

_“And you don’t think they’re replenishing those numbers? All you’re doing is killing kids like you!”_

_“You don’t think I know that?!” Ja’far snaps, throwing the bag in the floor. “You don’t think I realize that, and that I’m choosing to do it anyway?! I’m trying to keep you all safe!”_

_“We don’t need your protection!” Sinbad hisses, getting up in Ja’far’s space, towering over him with his height and looking down at him. “We need you,” he says and his voice is softer now, realizing yelling isn’t going to persuade the other man, he’s too brick-headed for that._

_“No, you don’t. I’m just an assassin, you have two of those.”_

_“I’m not talking about your skillset Ja’far, I’m talking about you. I’m talking about the person that Masrur is closest to, Kikiriku’s brother, and the brightest person I have under me. I’m talking about_ you. _We need you.”_

_“You’re going to have to wait, I’m sorry Sin.”_

_“Ja’far I just found you, I’m not letting you walk away like this.”_

_“I’m not asking you to let me. I’m asking you to understand.” Ja’far says quietly, picking up his bag and clutching it in his hands, red wires peeking out from beneath the sleeves of his tunic._

_“And I’m asking you to understand,” Sinbad says, grasping the younger’s hands in his own, wrapping scarred fingers in calloused palms. “Please. Just come home. We can handle this. Together.”_

_“Sin-“_

_“You have no idea how worried I’ve been, or Rurumu, or Drakon. Ja’far you mean so much, to all of us. I need you to realize that.”_

_“But I’m nothing.”_

_Somehow, the sun is even brighter now._

_*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*_

            He wasn’t sure if Sinbad was angry, or if he was hurt. He’d hardly said anything since they had met up with Rurumu.

            Maybe it was a combination of both.

            He couldn’t be sure.

            It was going to be a long journey.

            Noon his before too long, and they were making good time when they stopped for lunch.

            Sinbad was still silent.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            By early evening the silence had driven him crazy, and probably Rurumu too, seeing as she had chosen to fall back considerable, letting Sinbad and Ja’far take the lead.

            “You’re quiet,” Ja’far says simply, not knowing how otherwise to bring up the elephant in the room.

            “Is that wrong?” Ja’far frowns.

            “It’s unusual. And concerning.”

            “So is what you said this morning.”

            “Which part?” Sinbad ran a hand over his face, and he looked older in that moment, and yet still young, still too young to have the weight of so many allies on his shoulders, and yet here he was, standing strong and tall, but burdened by the past of an assassin he shouldn’t have to be so concerned about.

            “Where you said you were nothing.” Ja’far looked up at him, but Sinbad was looking away, looking out at the sun as it faded into horizon, leaving behind the light and the grit of the day for the cool reprieve of night. “You mean a lot to me, and to everyone at the company. I don’t know how you don’t see that, or how to fix it.”

            “You don’t have to fix me Sin.”

            “No I don’t. Because you aren’t broken. But you are wrong, you’re everything Ja’far.”

            In that moment, his heart seized, and for once, it left behind a pleasant spread of warmth instead of icy tendrils of dread, even if he knew one day, Sinbad would take back those words, for now, in the dark of creeping night, it was enough.

            It’s early the next morning when they board the ship that will take them back to the trading company, and Ja’far spends most of his time perched atop the side of the deck watching as the waters pass, seeing the dark shadows of sea life just below the surface, swimming along in their life with nothing more to think of, nothing complicated, nothing difficult.

            “How are you doing Ja’far?” Rurumu’s soft voice asks from behind him, and he turns to face her, the soft tendrils of aquamarine hair flowing about her, bare feet and every inch the woman he’d missed terribly while he was gone despite his efforts to forget everyone. Forgetting was so much easier than moving on, in theory anyway, the execution was something he hadn’t quite gotten to.

            “I’m,” he pauses, contemplating, because he hadn’t really thought about how _he_ was for the longest time, because no one cared. There was no one to ask him, and his first priority had never been himself, so outside of others, he was unlikely to think about how he was, if he was hungry or happy or lonely, he just was. He thought often about how his family would be doing, if they were safe, if the organization had found them despite his efforts, but here they were, proof that everything was ok, at least for now. “I’m good.” She smiles warmly at him before her face becomes serious.

            “You worried everyone you know Ja’far, leaving like that. Sinbad and Drakon worked very hard trying to figure out how to bring you home.”

            “They didn’t have to do that, I was fine.”

            “That’s not the point Ja’far.” She’s on her knees with her elbows on the railing in front of her, putting her almost right at his eye level. “The point is that they didn’t know And they care about you, they wanted you to be safe and home.”

            “Why is everyone so worried about taking me home, don’t you get it’s dangerous.”

            “You take those risks for family Ja’far. The tasks you’ll do with Sinbad are dangerous, dungeons and Djin warriors, does that make you any less inclined to be around him?”

            “But that’s different,” he tries but she levels him with a look and he closes his mouth.

            “Think about it. Is it really different?”

            “I guess not…” he concedes. She puts a hand on his shoulder as she stands, and he looks back out to the waters, the waves barely visible in the calm weathers.

            “Let’s go get some food, you’ve lost weight.” She says, giving a small tap to his abdomen before leading him to the dining area where Sinbad joined them shortly after.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            They arrive back in port almost a week later, and there’s quite the gathering when their ship docks.

            “Welcome back!” A symphony of shouts sounds from the pier when their exit ramp drops. Ja’far doesn’t have much time to think before Sinbad hoists him up on his shoulders, bag and all, and starts towards their friends.

            His heart swells at the welcome, and he finds himself close to tears, but unable to let himself actually let them fall despite the way it makes his throat ache and his vision blurry.

            “Ja’far!” He hears a small voice say, and then Kikirku is pushing his way through the crowds and grasping at Sinbad’s leg, and seconds later a blur of burgundy is looking up at him with silent and almost completely concealed glee.

            “Ja’far,” he says, and he can’t wait anymore, and he’s wriggling his way off of Sinbad’s shoulders and to the ground, where he wraps his arms around both of them, something that Masrur only allows for about half a minute before he’s struggling away and tugging at Ja’far’s hand.

            He looks back at Sinbad who simply smiles and gives him a look that says _‘go on then’_ and he’s following scampering children back behind the trading company and kicking around a ball with his obnoxiously strong family.

            His knees and shins are going to be bruised from stopping Masrur’s kicks, and his palms are stinging from catching Kikiriku’s, but the best part is the ache in his cheeks he feels from smiling so much.

            Sinbad joins them after a little while, and takes more than a couple of balls to the face and one to the side from Ja’far before they start a game of two on two.

            It’s a little violent and there’s one point where Sinbad bodily picks up Ja’far and takes the ball to try and get it past Masrur to score a point for him and Kikirku. Ja’far is yelling and laughing, slung over the man’s back like a sack of potatoes, but it’s the best he’s felt since he left after that day at the beach.

            It’s close to dusk when Rurumu calls them in for dinner and the rest of the “welcome party.”

            It’s overwhelming, and Ja’far isn’t surprised when Masrur disappears after stuffing his face. The kid isn’t big on crowds, and to be fair, Ja’far isn’t really, but he felt like for today, he could deal with the discomfort.

            He’d been hugged and welcomed back by just about everyone in the company, including a teary eyed Vittel and a smiling Drakon, odd as the smile looked on his normally stoic scaly face, and Ja’far wonders briefly how much of a pain in the ass Sinbad had been in his absence.

            Seeing their boisterous leader amongst the party, drinking and celebrating, he feels like his answer is obvious.

            _Very._

            And for some reason, despite knowing Sinbad’s melancholy must have been unbearable, the thought that his absence was noticed, and missed, actually brought warmth to his chest, and despite all the comforting words and reassurances, it’s those evidences that come out when they aren’t meant to, that don’t quite feel like their supposed to be understood or conveyed, that mean the most, because people don’t lie when they don’t think you’re listening.

            He looks around, looks at all the people, all his family, at Rurumu wrangling a wine glass out of Kikirku’s hands, ad Hinahoho looking on with fond exasperation, at Masrur who has re-appeared to claim more meat and the slinking back off down the hallway, at Drakon talking to Serendine, as unwitting as their alliance had been, he’s happy for them to be here now, and he thinks Rurumu’s influence is doing good things for the princess. He sees Mystras slumped over the table behind Sinbad, and laughs gently at how the party has progressed.

            “Everyone is happy to see you back,” one of Serendine’s companions says gently from beside him. “Even Miss Serendine, though she may not say it, is happy to see your safe return.”

           “I’m happy to be back as well,” Ja’far says before going up to Sinbad and pulling the wine glass from his hand and taking a sip himself of the bitter liquid and coughing gently as Sinbad pats him on the back.

            “To Sindria!” Someone shouts, and then there’s more drinking and celebrating and eating, and he feels warm all over and his finger are tingly, but he thinks that may be the wine.

            There’s chasing, and games, and at one point Ja’far is waving his weapons around because he’s convinced Mystras stole his glass even though in reality he just knocked it over.

            Sinbad sits in the corner, eating with a Masrur who has once again rejoined them when Rurumu brought out another large plate of food, watching his friends, his family party, watching Ja’far let loose and play, the Immchuk kids cuddled together in the corner and Serendine talking with Mahad and Vittel while she sips on her own glass, Hinahoho and Drakon conspiring bets on Ja’far versus Mystras as the younger threatens the Sassan knight for theft of the “highest *hiccup* order.”

            It’s a good night, and he hopes to see many more in the continuation of Sindria, in company or country, this is what he wants. This happiness, this camaraderie, and these people. He may bring more aboard, but its them that make this work, all of them, even if some of them don’t quite get that yet.

            He does grimace thinking about having to deal with everyone tomorrow, when they’re hungover and less than indisposed, but right now, he’ll just relish in this moment, in this safety and joy. Let the night continue its blanket before the morning comes and they have to deal with everything “tomorrow” encompasses.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Party scene inspired by

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there’s another chapter, please review if you enjoyed, I love knowing what you guys are thinking, and I hope to go back and be able to reply to everybody eventually. Sorry it took awhile, bronchitis is a bitch -_-  
> Also if anyone is interested in betaing any of my stories, let me know :P  
> On tumblr at cassiel-of-Thursday.tumblr.com


	12. The song in my heart goes on

It’s a few days of relative normalcy before Sinbad makes the announcement they’re going to the dark continent. Which is less of an announcement and more of an interruption while he and Ja’far are sparring.

            “Balalark Sei!”

            “Getting better,” Sinbad says, parrying the attack with his sword. He’s trying to extend the duration of his Djin equip, and Ja’far is one of, if not, his favorite sparring partner. He’s quick, has the stamina of a warrior, plus his concentration face is kind of adorable, not that he’ll ever say that if he wants to keep all of his fingers. “Hey Ja’far?”

            “Aren’t we supposed to be fighting, not talking?” Ja’far says, whipping out of the way of one of Sinbad’s attacks and in a flurry of motion unleashing his own, which happens to wrap it’s way around Sinbad’s ankle, and with a sharp tug has the older falling to the ground with an ‘oof.’ The cool pressure of steel at his throat lets him know though he may have a Djin equip, Ja’far is still more than capable.

            “Now you won, so, I’m thinking it’s time for us to head to the dark continent.” Ja’far falters where he’s perched atop of Sinbad’s chest before standing and helping the other to his feet.

            “I mean, you said that when we came back from Balbadd, are we really going now?”

            “If you would accompany me, I’d like to leave tomorrow morning.”

            “Tomorrow?! Have you told anyone else?”

            “Who else would I have to tell?” Ja’far rubs at his temple.

            “Oh, I don’t know, the company maybe?”

            “I suppose that is important.”

            “Sin!”

            “I’m kidding I’m kidding, Rurumu knows already. I planned to announce the voyage at dinner tonight.”

            “You’re going to be the death of me.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            They’re in one of the offices that evening, laying down by candlelight and planning their journey, Ja’far’s steady hand laying the lines that will mark their course from Reim to the Dark Continent.

            “I don’t want to sail anymore,” Ja’far grumbles.

            “Why not, the ocean is lovely and the waves are predictable.”

            “You’re exposed and have nowhere to go.” Ja’far says plainly.

            “It’ll be alright,” Sinbad says, rubbing the bony shoulder of his younger companion before standing and stretching, his night shirt rising up to reveal a small bit of tummy that Ja’far pokes with his protractor. Sinbad bats it away with a laugh. “Don’t do that I’m ticklish.”

            “Never reveal weakness to an assassin,” Ja’far says with a wild grin, tackling the other man and latching onto his sides, sending the room into uproarious laughter and clattering.

            It doesn’t take long for the noise to summon Rurumu, who berates them for still being up when they are leaving early in the morning.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            It’s very early the next morning when Ja’far is throwing his few belongings in a bag. His hands were trembling, and he wasn’t sure why. His anxiety was racked up, and he couldn’t taper it back down, it was clawing at his throat and dragging like concrete through his veins. Something bad was going to happen, this was the same feeling he got before a mission went bad, before they lost someone on a raid, before he etched his skin with a new scar because he moved too slow.

            This was going to drive him crazy.

            The tremor in his hand had calmed slightly, but was still there when he left his room, bag slung over his shoulder and rations hanging by his side. He was on alert, in their own _home_ , and he knew his nerves would be fried until whatever was going to fall to pieces, shattered on the floor in front of him.

            He held stilted conversation with Masrur when he ran into him in the hallway; he said few words when Hinahoho tried to engage him while they waited for Sinbad to drag his rear out of bed, and he barely heard Drakon when the two larger males started talking about routes and strategies.

            He was sitting on the rail of the boat tapping his foot against the outside when Sinabd approached him.

            “What’s wrong?” Ja’far looked up at him, wondering if he were really so transparent, and one look at his white knuckled grip on his own hands, his futile attempt to control the shaking, let him realize he was as see through as the crystal water below the ship.

            “Bad feeling,” he supplied. “Can’t seem to control it.” Sinbad shrugged.

            “It’ll be alright. I’m sure of it,” Ja’far looked back at him, away from the water tantalizing him from below, and Sinbad flashed him his brilliant smile and some of the weight seemed to fall away, joining the waves breaking behind them.

            “I just… am not used to caring so much. It’s hard.” Sinbad wrapped his arms around him from behind, gripping his pale hands in his, rubbing small circles in the calloused skin, trying to ebb away the negativity.

            “I know. You’ll get used to it. It helps that we have a very capable group of friends, remember that. They’re all incredible,” Ja’far looked down again, knowing their friends were amazing, and that he didn’t compare in the slightest. Hinahoho had his harpoon and the methods of his tribe, Mystras had the knowledge and strength of the Knights along with his own perseverance, Masrur was a fanalis with unbreakable will, and he was a broken assassin. “You’re the only one that’s quick enough to fight with me though,” Sinbad says squeezing his hands tighter, crushing the doubt that had begun to fester in his mind.

            “The others..” he started but Sinbad cut him off.

            “Each of you has something special. And so do you,” Sinbad says, butting his forehead against the back of Ja’far’s, eliciting a small chuckle from the smaller male. “There’s a reason each of you are here, and only part of that is because I want you to be. Find your reason and stick with it.”

            “I’m here... because I want to protect everyone…” Ja’far mumbles.

            “Then hold that in your heart and fight for it. I fight, to fix this broken world, and I’ll count on you to protect me.”

            “Thank you, Sin.” Ja’far says, leaning back against his friend. “For everything.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            Ja’far wakes a couple hours later, the rise and fall of Sinbad’s chest still a steady thing behind him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            He doesn’t like the heat. This makes the desert unbearable. He feels like he’s had this thought already, and maybe he has, maybe by this point his thoughts have gone circular. He really doesn’t like the desert. It’s open, vulnerable, obstacleless, and he’s briefly fallen to panic at heat mirages on the horizon. Gods it’s worse than the damn sea. Much worse. There’s sweat places he had no idea could sweat, much less as much as they are.

            It drenches his hood around his neck and his frustration increases, as does the fitfulness of his mind; he never can seem to shake those instincts the assassin in him has, no matter how many times Sinbad assures him they’ll be fine, that they’re safe. None of it reassures him long. He had thought they were safe in Reim, and then the organization was under his nose. Safety is an illusion. Like that city on the horizon.

            The one thing he can be thankful for, is now that they have a small distane from the sea, it is a dry heat. It’s no longer swimming through the air or drinking in your breaths, unfortunately, this also hinders their progress. Throats become parched too often, Hinahoho wears quickly as a warrior of Northern climates, and Ja’far finds himself hardpressed to argue with any of them when they ask to rest for awhile.

            They manage to keep breaks limited, but he still feels like they are crossing the desert in a crawl, and the anxiety that had plagued him before they left was back full force, keeping his eyes scanning the horizon, his hands twitching towards his weapon when a bird flies overhead, his muscles aching with the strain he’s been putting on them.

            They finally reach Reim’s only outpost on the dark continent: Cathargo. They pass through quickly, too fueled by the obvious excitement of their leader, and the more passive excitement of Masrur.

            It’s only a few hours before they get jumped by bandits, though it hardly slowed them down. Ja’far was already agitated from the state of his mind and the irritations of the desert, and between the group of well equipped warriors, the bandits stood no chance, and Sinbad was beaming with pride at his friends, talking animatedly about the scuffle for the foreseeable time.

            The others quickly became annoyed at the rendition, but Ja’far couldn’t help but smile at the ease Sinbad was exuding, the happiness spread through him and for the first time since they’d stepped on the ship, he relaxed.

~*~*~*~*~*~

            The journey is long, but surprisingly Sinbad remains well-behaved, pressing forward unlike how had conducted himself in Artemyra.

            The moment they stepped into Heliohapt, things felt wrong. The country was _wrong,_ and it wound itself around Ja’far’s lungs, around his limbs, but he let it be. He distrusted their immediate welcome, and held his tongue as Sinbad charmed his way around. He tried to stay calm and personable as they were shown around by their native guide, tried to smile and stay polite even as his instincts screamed at him.

As the day pressed on, he fought to relax, and he began to succeed. The man they were with was friendly, kind and he couldn't help but be persuaded by Sinbad's uproarious mood, despite the fact he was continuously trying to calm it. He listened with surprising calm as the problems in the country were laid out before them by the King and his party, as their troubles were defined; he could practically see the gears turning in Sin's head. 

The meeting had been unusual, but he brushed it off, allowing them to continue their day, all the while insisting it was getting late and that they should return soon. Then it happened. The man struck dead, falling to the ground the same way a leaf falls from a tree, without apparent reason or cause, sudden and unexpected. He doesn't make it to the ground, not quite, Ja'far catches him, easing the descent as he crouches with the man's weight.  

The rest of the day passed in a blur; it al ran together like raindrops on a tentside, something distinct one minute and unrecognizable the next.

It sort of made him dizzy to think about, then again, that may be because od the blood loss and other injuries he sustained in the dungeon. Yeah, that was entirely possible.

His body _ached_. He had changed his clothes, so at least they were no longer tainted, no longer stained crimson with his and Masrur's blood, no longer showing the evidence of his relapsed violence, forced as it was. His chest throbbed as they walked, and it was still rather poorly bandaged. 

They had arrived back to their sleeping quarters on into the evening. Dinner was still being served but Ja'far wasn't interested. He felt weak and sick and wanted nothing more than to lay down and sink into oblivion. 

He had barely pulled the curtain on his space and sat down when Sinbad strode through, his face uncharacteristically serious, a bowl of food in hand. He dropped to his knees in front of Ja'far, thrusting the food at him. 

"Eat." He commanded, and Ja'far took it wordlessly. He still wasn't hungry, so he just looked at it dubiously, causing Sinbad to scowl and push it closer, their hands brushing as he did so, and it surprised Ja'far how warm the other's skin was against his own; he perhaps shouldn't be surprised, given how much time the older male spent in the sun; he wished his skin could be kissed by the sun like that, but his response to the rays was always more violent, always burned him, much like his life had. 

"Thanks, but I'm not really hungry," Ja'far says, moving to set the bowl to the side, but Sinbad grabs it and sits it firmly in his lap. 

"You almost _died_ today, you are _going_ to eat." Ja'far raises his eyebrows at him, reluctantly taking a spoonful into his mouth. The taste was heavy on his tongue, too much spice on his uneasy stomach. The flavors burned his tongue, his palate generally used to the absence of flavor and mush, not to the vibrant flavors they offered here and at the trading company; he often found himself eating breads simply because he couldn't handle anything else, and he still wondered what _taste_ was; the flavor burned, but it didn't do anything else for him, didn't give him the pleasure it gave others, the only distinction he got was whether it was soothing or painful, but there was nothing else. It just didn't register. 

He shifted under Sinbad’s weighted gaze, unwilling to break it or squirm beneath it’s pressure; he knew what the older teen wanted and he wasn’t getting it. He took another spoonful of the food, it’s flavor no less unpleasant than it was in the first bite.

The fabric under him was rough on his skin, and the spoon suddenly felt too heavy to be what it was, to be the little thing in his hand, the little seemingly insignificant thing. It was weighing him down, like a lot of things these days it seemed. He was too far in his own head, enveloped in the grey matter, lost in the folds and ridges. A throat clearing jerked him away from it all, pulled him outside himself abruptly, roughly, jarringly.

His eyes refocused to see Sinbad looking at him expectantly, arms folded across his broad chest, lips pursed and violet eyebrow raised. Ja’far scoffed, shaking his head and standing, his legs barely steady beneath him as he maneuvered around the room, pretending to be oblivious to the barely concealed rage pulsing behind him.

“Do you have anything to say?” Sinbad asks, and his voice is vibrating, pulsing with a threat Ja’far knows he won’t deliver on.

“No. I’d just like to sleep honestly,” he says, having stopped in front of his bed mat and intending on folding himself into it when a strong grip enveloped his bicep and pulled, turning him to face molten eyes.

“You could have gotten killed today,” Sinbad hisses, but Ja’far doesn’t even blink, doesn’t change his impassive stare.

“I knew what I was doing.” He knows it isn’t good enough, but he says it anyway, and Sinbad huffs angrily, dropping the limb he’d been holding hostage.

“Did you? How many times exactly have you done that?”

“I know my body very well, and the technique was well thought out.”

“How many times?” Sinbad ground out, though Ja’far assumed he already knew the answer. It was so frustrating to deal with the older teen sometimes, why he was pushing on a question he already knew the answer eluded him, it made no sense, it just seemed like a waste of energy.

“That was the first,” he admits, giving Sinbad what he wanted. He hadn’t expected the way the man’s face fell, no longer taught with anger, no he was resigned, and hurt, and Ja’far still didn’t get it.

“You could have died,” he says again, and Ja’far frowns. It isn’t like he didn’t think about that, he did; he just knew there was no other way. They had talked about this not long ago, that Ja’far felt his place now was as a protector, of course he wasn’t going to hurt, or gods forbid, kill Masrur. He took a measured risk, and it worked out; they hadn’t gotten the dungeon no, but everyone survived, isn’t that what’s important? Almost as if he was reading his mind Sinbad continues, “you can’t keep doing this, behaving like you don’t matter.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“It’s what it looked like.” Ja’far hates this Sinbad more than an angry Sinbad; this Sinbad is defeated, he’s resigned, and Ja’far _hates_ it.

“Why does it matter? Everything turned out fine, are you mad we didn’t get the dungeon, is that what’s wrong?” He says, and his voice is raising, rising with intensity and Sinbad matches it when he meets his gaze, fire alit behind his eyes again and Ja’far welcomes it.

“I’m mad that you risked yourself like that! We almost lost you when you left, and now you do this?”

“I knew what I was doing!”

“I didn’t know! Drakon didn’t know! We all thought you were dead, did you think about what that would do to us? Or if you’d messed up? What if we’d actually lost you!”

“Better me than Masrur!”

“I want _all_ my friends safe! I don’t want any of you trying to sacrifice yourselves,” he moves forward, bending to be the same level as Ja’far, his hands on his shoulders, but this time his grip is gentle. “I need you all to be safe, but you won’t ever protect yourself.”

“I had to protect him.”

“No you didn’t.”

“The djin-“

“Fuck the Djin, I’d rather give up every dungeon than lose you. You are so much more important to me than some metal vessel, I need you to understand that. I need you to look out for yourself cause Ja’far, I can’t lose you.”

“But I’m- I’m nothing. You have Mahad and Vittel, losing me, that doesn’t change anything.” Sinbad shakes his head, dropping to his knees and pulling Ja’far into his chest, hugging him tightly.

“It’s not about what you can do, it’s about who you _are._ You’re rash and cunning and caring and there’s no one else like you. I lose so much if I lose you.”

He’s not sure when they started, but tears are falling freely down his cheeks now, his body is trembling, though he’s not sure if it’s from the crying or from exhaustion at this point.

“Come on,” Sinbad says, letting him go, thumbing the tears away from his eyes, it’s sweet but ultimately useless as more spill over and take the fallen ones place. Sin pulls back the blanket, and gestures for Ja’far to lay down, and he does, body sinking into the comfort of the mat, and Sinbad lets the blanket fall. “We love you Ja’far, don’t ever doubt that.”

He doesn’t say anything else as he stands, turning his back and heading for the curtain, and suddenly Ja’far can’t bear to see him go, can’t watch him walk away and his breath chokes in a aborted sob, causing the other man to turn around with concern. He doesn’t come closer, but he doesn’t pull away either, standing halfway between coming and going, and Ja’far croaks out a “ _stay”_ that’s so pitiful he’s ashamed of it, but Sinbad complies, shrugging off his outer layers before sliding into place beside Ja’far, fingers stroking his hair until the tears subside and they both fall asleep.

His sleep that night is dreamless, unlike many of the ones before. He’s not fixed, and maybe he was never actually broken, he’s still not quite sure on that front; he knows he’d still give his all to protect his new family, but he has something attached to himself that goes beyond his skills and abilities, that goes beyond his _usefulness_ , and it feels nice. He has something he’s never had before, not in his memory; he has love. It’s strange, how much his life has changed, and how quickly. He has people that can be strong for _him,_ that he can have weakness around; he loves his little family, and he loves Sin.

 

 

 

 

           

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, go easy on me. I haven’t written fanfiction in god knows how long. It’s been years. Honestly I haven’t written much besides dumb papers or this black hole of a thesis so I apologize if this is crappy. I wasn’t a good writer to begin with.  
> So this goes along the Sinbad no Bouken timeline – so if you haven’t read that you might be lost. It is set just after Sinbad gets freed from Maader. 
> 
> I think this will be two chapters. I apologize if you find people to be OOC, this is the first fic I've written for this fandom.
> 
> I kinda came up with this thought because of how he was brought up, then re-reading the section where Ja'far finds out Rurumu is having a child and calls himself a piece of trash, and then him blaming himself for not being able to save Sin from being taken in the first place. 
> 
> I tagged it M/M and Sinbad/Ja'far to be safe, but I don't really plan on having any kind of real relationship there. I ship it, hard, but a romantic relationship isn't really my plan for this.


End file.
